Obstructed Views
by Detour
Summary: Gibbs sees an opportunity to improve Director Vance's opinion of DiNozzo. Will Vance give him a fighting chance? Will DiNozzo behave? Seems unlikely, doesn't it? A new development finds Gibbs in danger...what's a DiNozzo to do?
1. Chapter 1

_Hi. I'm new. _

_This seems to be the thing to do, so:_

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

_This first chapter doesn't have much Tony, but the ones to follow look to have him in abundance._

_I welcome your comments! Especially on formatting, until I get the hang of this software._

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* * *

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**Chapter 1.**

"No way."

"Gibbs…"

"No. Way. Get someone else, Leon." Gibbs raised his coffee to take a fortifying drink and found it disturbingly empty. He scowled at the cup, then scowled at the man across from him.

"I need another agent, one who carries some weight. You've gone into similar situations before. Give me one reason why you're not my best choice right now. Other than 'I don't want to'."

"I'll make your life a living hell for the duration."

"That…" Vance leaned back in his chair and eyed the overly self-assured pain. He wasn't sure which tactic to take. He spent far too much time thinking about how to appear he was in control of Gibbs as it was. "That might work this time. I don't have the time to handle you on this trip."

Gibbs let out a surprised snort of laughter. "You handle me a lot, Leon? Let me know if I can do anything to make things easier on you."

Now it was Vance's turn to scowl across the desk. "Who exactly do you propose to send in your place? I don't have a lot of options at my fingertips."

Gibbs shrugged and slowly turned the coffee cup in his hand, gaze unfocused. He wasn't sure he particularly cared for the idea that had just occurred to him. He thought it over while the Director unnecessarily began listing off well-respected agents and the reasons they could not go.

On the one hand, he'd have a quieter week. And a situation that – if he spent any time thinking about it – made him irrationally angry may finally be cleared up. On the other hand, that same situation could get significantly worse. And his temper was always shorter whenever –

"Take DiNozzo."

Vance trailed off his recital and blinked. His mind completely blanked. What an inconceivably awful suggestion.

"DiNozzo? Thanks for the laugh Gibbs. If you wanted me to stop talking you could have just walked out like you normally do."

Gibbs shrugged again, face blank. "He's been in similar situations. Even in a lead position when I was on vacation a few years back. He's a good investigator. You won't find a better schmoozer. Could come in handy."

"You're really serious?" Vance's voice came out a little higher pitched than he intended.

"Sure." Gibbs smiled.

Suddenly Vance worried there was an ulterior motive in this suggestion.

"I'll find someone else. Thanks for the helpful talk."

"Anytime, Leon." Gibbs left. Must get coffee.

* * *

An hour later, Gibbs and his crew were all seated at their desks, working a cold case while they waited for something new to come in. Gibbs' desk phone rang.

"Yeah, Gibbs." He listed for a moment, then hung up. All was silent for a moment while the three younger agents pretended not to stare at him. Honestly, sometimes he wondered how they functioned as investigators.

"DiNozzo."

"Yes, boss!" Tony shot to his feet. Sometimes cold cases were good. Sometimes you wanted the challenge of an old mystery, one you had to really sink in to and let stew in your brain juice. But today he was itching to move about. Anywhere.

"Go home and pack a bag. You can add in a couple of your fancy suits this time."

"Boss?"

"You're going to a security conference. With Director Vance." Gibbs finally looked over at his senior field agent. "Try to behave yourself."

Ziva laughed.

Tony grabbed his backpack and started towards the elevator. Maybe not _anywhere_, exactly. Hoping to go anywhere at all was pretty stupid, really. Especially if you didn't consider the company you'd be keeping.

"Tony."

He looked back at Gibbs.

"I mean it."

Tony smiled a big DiNozzo smile. "Sure thing, boss."

As he left the room, Gibbs dialed the extension for Vance's secretary. "Make sure DiNozzo and the director aren't seated next to each other on the plane."


	2. Chapter 2

_I didn't expect so many readers for the first chapter of the first story of a first-time author! Thanks for your adds and comments people, it's heartening to know you want more. I have some additional rough chapters written; I'll try to get them cleaned up and posted soon. Know that if the story progresses as planned, it will include some more serious scenes (which should also be longer chapters) later on. _

* * *

Tony had been to security conferences before. He thought he knew the drill – meetings, panels, schmoozing, making contacts. Maybe learning a little about foreign counterparts or a new defense plan, meeting the geeks that wrote the academic papers everyone praised but no one finished the whole way through. Endless discussions on privacy followed by drinks with your new friends.

But besides being larger, there were two very significant differences between this conference and the ones he had previously been a part of.

One – this included exhibitors. A whole hall of exhibitors, and some of them had shiny toys. He wished Abby was with him. Or Ziva. Abby could explain the forensic contraptions. Ziva could play with the weapons. This place would put smiles on both their faces.

Two – the conference was in Toronto. Since it was a huge international get-together, there were representatives from dozens of governments and private security companies throughout the world. But as it was set in Canada, there were Mounties _everywhere._ Mounties in red uniforms, Mounties in brown uniforms, Mounties manning doors and leading meetings and Mountie hats galore.

Tony loved Mounties. They were fascinating. It was like combining a wild west sheriff with a stoic federal agent and Clark Kent. They policed much of a country with a marvelous array of normally fictitious virtues. Or at least they seemed to. They couldn't all be so very superhuman. Right?

Of course not. The little McGoo in his head argued that if you read the news you'd see Mounties could fail. They were human, a national police force made up of men and women who could make mistakes. Who could be good or bad, who could make bad decisions.

Seeing them en masse in their red uniforms with their hats and horses (some of them had horses!) made him feel like he was walking amongst comic book heroes.

But he was here to behave himself and represent NCIS in an official capacity, to be of help to the _Director_ of NCIS. He could not be distracted by the hats.

"DiNozzo, are you even listening?" A voice whispered angrily from his side. "I asked you to take notes at this presentation; you knew I'd be missing the first half hour."

Tony looked around and saw Vance seething two chairs away. He looked back towards the northeast corner of the room, where his attention had been focused before the rude interruption. Okay, sometimes he was distracted by the hats.

He smiled cheerfully at Vance and waved at his notebook. There were notes there. He probably hadn't missed much during his short mental siesta. He focused his attention back on the speaker and took excellent notes during the rest of the session. Hopefully Vance didn't notice the pictures he took with his cell phone.

* * *

The phone rang, rudely interrupting a rare silence in the squadroom. It was answered by the standard, if slightly annoyed, "Gibbs."

"Did you send him as a test? Do you find amusement in representing our agency with a buffoon?"

"Something wrong, Leon?" Well, sounded like Tony was being Tony.

"Wrong? Let me tell you the start of a joke, Gibbs."

"I'm listening."

"Agent DiNozzo, two Mounties, a guy from La Unidadand a hotel waiter go into a karaoke bar."

"Yeah?"

"Then they spend several hours challenging anyone they _think_ looks like a CIA agent to a 'battle royale' on stage."

Gibbs' hand snuck up to massage his left temple. "Yeah…"

"I know about this because the first panel of this morning featured some YouTube video of the event. Your agent is featured…prominently." Vance managed to make 'prominently' include a few extra drawn-out syllables. "The crowds' favorite seemed to be torn between his solo rendition of "Lola" and his group's rendition of "Sealed with a Kiss," which he apparently soulfully dedicated to Brad Pitt."

"His group?"

"Special Agent DiNozzo, two Mounties, a member of La Unidad and a hotel waiter. They formed a cover band. "

Momentary silence ensued.

Vance broke it by asking, "Don't you want to know where the joke comes in?"

"Nope."

"Good choice."


	3. Chapter 3

The original plan had been for Tony and Vance to attend different sessions so that they could cover more ground. However, they were currently seated next to each other (with a manly empty seat between them) listening to several presentations on new developments in airport and transit security.

The Director had made it clear to DiNozzo that he was not performing as expected. Apparently Tony was supposed to sit quietly and take notes. To attempt to overhear useful conversations, but to engage only when he thought he could unobtrusively draw out more information that could be of direct importance to Vance.

Tony thought that was crap.

This was a conference, not a secret hangout for spies. He was making contacts. Two years from now most of the people here wouldn't remember any of the sessions, or most of the people they met here. If you met someone you wanted to keep an open line of communication with, it was better to make a lasting impression – any kind of lasting impression, in his view – than to blandly exchange business cards and false smiles. He had not bothered explaining this to the Director during his earlier stare down. Why bother?

In Tony's opinion, he had been working. He had been networking. He had been paying attention to habits and interpersonal connections that could be useful one day, if perhaps indirectly. He had been trying to behave, like Gibbs asked. He hadn't been "acting out" as the Director accused him of. Kids acted out. Psychologists told you part of your psyche was acting out.

If Vance wanted to see what he was really like when he acted out…

Tony sighed, and Vance glared at him for far longer than seemed called for. Gibbs would be unhappy if Tony set out to purposefully behave against the Director's wishes. So he wouldn't. But he could still dream about it. And he could still find some way to add a little spice to the day without disobeying orders. He just wasn't paying enough attention. There is always a way.

He refocused all his faculties on the presentation on stage and the audience in front of him.

Two presenters later, he encountered his opportunity for useful entertainment.

* * *

Vance was not paying close attention to what was going on. He was alternating between thoughtlessly glaring at DiNozzo, brooding over the general incompetence of the man and pretending he was paying attention to the speaker and ignoring the fact that this supposedly senior agent existed. The latter was very difficult.

He hated to be made a fool of. And DiNozzo was making him look like a fool just for having him on the payroll.

If he canned DiNozzo, or sent him to the farthest post he could find, would Gibbs really leave?

Did he care?

A change in Tony's posture brought him out of his reflections. Though the agent had been seemingly paying close attention to the proceedings at the front of the room, he had now straightened, holding himself just a little rigid, as though his muscles had tensed. His eyes were not roaming the room any longer. He was staring at the speaker intently, like a drug-sniffing dog that had just caught a whiff of something in his repertoire and was attempting to catch it again.

Who was this speaker again? Vance tuned back in to the skinny bald presenter.

"…our new advanced detectors are twice as effective as the current models. They penetrate more substances, will show the consistency and density of substances, have a 'scent' detection for certain particles used in explosives and poisons and have a sharper clarity when displaying the shapes of objects. Even a knife carved out of a plastic comb would show up on the monitor."

Vance glanced to his right again. DiNozzo was smiling.

"Our detectors are already in use. I've heard rumblings from some of the attendees that they've been stopped at the hall entrance for pocket knives, hairspray, metal cigar holders, all sorts of things. I'd love to apologize for this since it was our scanners on the doors," the crowd started murmuring at this, "but I think the demonstration it provided speaks for itself so I can't be too regretful."

He didn't have to glace to the side this time. He could see the grin that appeared on DiNozzo's face without moving. He started to lean over to warn the agent off but was too late.

"Excuse me sir!" Tony said loudly, and enthusiastically, from the middle of the auditorium.

"The gentleman has a question?" the presenter graciously acknowledged. "Please, call me Desmond."

"I do indeed! Desmond, I'd like to know how you explain that I've carried a knife through your detectors several times each day without being stopped."

Desmond's smile became a little more forced. "Very amusing, sir! But to get back to the serious matter at hand…"

"No, Desmond. You don't need to change the topic to get back to a serious matter. I find it quite serious that I've carried a weapon through your lovely new machine a dozen times without once being detected. Don't you?" There was a different cast to Tony's face now, though the smile and the hearty tone of voice never faltered.

The speaker gave his pleasant expression up. Scowling, he offered, "I would be happy to speak with you after the session if you require some personal attention. If you would kindly allow me to continue…"

"Desmond, call me Tony. I feel like we're not connecting," Tony offered with seeming earnesty. "Now I sure hate to upset your very fine flow up there, but is that not a working scanner set up to the side of the stage there?"

"Yes, but this really isn't the time or place for…"

"This really isn't the time or place to be disproving a disbeliever? Seems to me it's exactly the place, Des." Tony got up slowly and stretched. He took his jacket off and placed it on the back of his chair, neatly folded. Vance thought about stopping him but the situation had progressed too far already. He sincerely hoped Gibbs' trust in this man had some foundation.

Tony ambled slowly down the auditorium's steps, briefly greeting several people as he passed, ignoring the presenter's blustering on stage. He had the entire audience's captive attention. As he stepped onto the stage he turned a full circle with his arms up and smiled at the audience. "No rabbits up my sleeve, see?" He joked. Several onlookers cheered him on.

"Take it all off!"

"Is there a magic show now?"

"Sing!"

The mood in the room was considerably brighter and more animated.

Tony turned again to the presenter. "Des, you're not gonna disappoint a fawning public, are you?" His eyes flicked quickly to Vance and back. "They're just waiting for you to prove me wrong. They'd love to ram my face in this for the next two days. Wouldn't you?" The last, addressed to the crowd, was met with a rather resounding "YES!"

Tony made a face out at them. "Well that's real nice, friends. So let's get this show on the road and see who's got the egg running all damn down their face." He said the last a little quieter, almost menacingly, but he never lost his smile. "Shall we?"

Desmond scurried over to the side of the stage and hit a series of buttons. "Fine, fine, come on through." He looked a little sweaty.

Tony strutted over to the side of the stage and walked through the sensors. Nothing happened.

He stuck a finger to the side of his mouth and made an overly surprised face, panning from one side of the audience to the other. "Uh oh!" Laughter followed. He turned with enlarged movements to the man at the controls. "Des, man, what happened? Not ready yet? Don't worry, it happens to every man eventually…well, not me…but I'm told every man…" A more sheepish smile followed, still mugging to the audience.

Vance wanted to shoot him. If the man had a point under all these theatrics, he had better get to it soon.

As though he was reading the Director's mind, Tony's eyes again flicked back to Vance's. They were startlingly serious in comparison to the expression on his face. He turned around, walking back through the sensors again. Nothing happened.

There was a definite sheen of sweat to Desmond's bald head now. The crowd, a group of normally watchful and controlled adults dressed in suits, was becoming very rowdy.

Desmond sputtered, rather desperately, "You have yet to prove you have a weapon on you, sir!"

The audience concurred. Loudly.

Tony stepped back a bit, as though he wanted to see and be seen by the entire crowd. Vance noted his new position also allowed him to keep an eye on Desmond as well.

Still smiling, he began to undo his belt buckle.

Vance was sure his ears turned red at the ensuing catcalls. Gibbs' agent, however, not only kept his cool, but lifted his right hand and waived one finger at the audience. "Naughty, naughty people. This is no strip show!"

Expression never changing, he smoothly pulled a knife out of his belt buckle. Or rather, his belt buckle appeared to be a knife. A gleaming, very pointy, silvery knife.

With a moue of shock, he looked down at it.

"What's this?" Some audience members were still loudly participating, but a large part of the crowd had fallen silent. "Looks like a knife!" He made a few tentative swipes with it. "Feels like a knife."

Eyes still on the blade, he ran his finger along the side, and said much more quietly but still quite clearly, "Now I have a question for my adoring fans. How many of you saw someone get caught out by the devices at the doors to this building? Come on, show of hands." Over half the people in the audience put their hands up.

"Good. Now, how many of you were stopped yourselves?"

No hands went up.

"How many of you are personally acquainted with someone who was stopped?"

No hands went up.

Tony smiled yet another smile. This one was smaller, more intimate. A little mean, somehow.

Very softly he said, "Now doesn't that seem strange?"

The audience fell completely silent now. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "In case you're afraid this blade is carved out of soap or something –" With a quick snap of his wrist, he threw the knife, which did not look suitable for throwing.

It impaled in the doorframe, about a foot in front of Desmond's face as he attempted to leave the room.

"It's really very sharp."

He walked over to the door where Desmond had frozen and placed his left hand on the man's shoulder while pulling the knife out of the wood. He leaned in to say something in the man's ear, then turned a big smile back to the crowd.

"Hey, can someone come take this guy? He's kinda sweaty. And sticky." He glanced over at Vance and then back at the door. "Uh, I'm sure a little putty will fill that hole right up."

Property damage had not been on Vance's mind at the moment.

* * *

_The story is far from over and has quite a bit more drama to come. The shorter chapters come easier to me but I am trying to expand. Another chapter is about ready but I am questioning if it really adds anything to the story as a whole; if I can fix it, it could be up as early as tonight._

_Thanks for your encouragement! It really does affect me._


	4. Chapter 4

_Had to be brave and delete that entire chapter I mentioned last time. Just didn't sit right, even if it did have some tasty action in it. Let's try this instead:_

* * *

Gibbs had a bad feeling. He was regretting sending DiNozzo along with the director. He wanted the kid here, in his sight.

Not that he was a kid anymore. He hadn't been for a long time now.

Tony could take care of himself. Though he had navigated a different kind of jungle than David, they both came to him from some pretty dangerous and very solo paths. DiNozzo had the damned luckiest streak of dumbass survival abilities of anyone he'd ever met.

Of course, in order to have that streak he had to get into quite a bit of trouble to begin with.

"Boss?"

"What?" Gibbs snapped back at McGee.

"You were sort of growling. Just a little. I mean – maybe it was humming? Or maybe it was your stomach. Or…Ziva's stomach?" McGee might be showing less and less of his probie self, but he still didn't handle Gibbs well.

Ziva threw a balled up wad of paper which bounced off McGee's head. "_My_ stomach, McGee? It would never do anything so uncouth."

Great, now they were performing poor man's imitations of DiNozzo, as though his ghost was possessing them to annoy him from afar.

His ghost…

Nah, DiNozzo was fine. He just needed to settle down until he figured out what was making him so uneasy. But focusing on this damned paperwork wasn't helping any. He could go talk to Ducky or Abby, but they weren't much help unless he had something more to go on. This was too intangible. Normally Tony would notice a mood like this and –

Well he hadn't heard from the kid in three freakin' days. Shouldn't a senior field agent check in with his superior? He wasn't on vacation. He was supposed to be working.

He dialed the phone. Heard after two rings a boisterous, "Hi boss! Miss me?"

Gibbs kept silent.

"It's great up here. Have you ever seen the Mounties do the horse dance thing? It's really great. They offered to let me ride with them after I told them how experienced a rider I was, but you know, I didn't want to impose…"

Gibbs put some intensity behind his silence.

"So…you been talking to Vance, boss?"

This did not bode well. "Yeah, DiNozzo, sometimes employees check in with their bosses."

Tony gave the fakest chuckle possible. "Right, sorry about that. Been sorta busy."

"Yeah, I heard about some of your…activities."

"That's nice that Vance is talking to you more often. He's not really talking to me right now at all." Tony launched into a hopefully embellished story about catching a weasel peddling fake metal detectors during a meeting. Gibbs rested his forehead on his desk. Just for a moment. "See, it's not like I expected to be praised or anything. I mean, the building is full of paranoid federal agents. If they weren't half asleep from the guy's boring monotone, somebody else would have realized they walked through one of those scanners with something they shouldn't have been able to get through. In another minute there would probably have been a dozen guys after him. I just happened to handle the situation with a little more pizzazz than some of the stuffed shirts might have." Tony chattered on a while longer.

Gibbs refused to smile.

"…so then the Director said that my intelligence and ability was never in question, that he assumed I had those qualities or you'd never put up with me. Which is true, I guess. That makes sense. But apparently he doesn't like my style or my decision making skills." The cheerful tone darkened minutely at the end of that sentence. But he perked right back up, "Actually he said the more time he spends with me, the more he respects you. That could be a good thing."

Okay, he could smile, but he refused to laugh.

"I thought maybe it was a good opening to get to know him better so I invited him to come out with me and some of the guys I met here to this karaoke bar – "

Gibbs emitted a stifled noise, somewhere between a grunt, a groan and a laugh.

" – and he said no. Well, really he said something a little more hurtful than that, but I can't imagine he meant it." He was finally quiet for a moment. Then, "Hey boss? Feeling any better?"

"Don't know what you're talking about." Damn kid.

"I'm glad."

"Tony…" Gibbs got up and walked towards the back elevator, away from the prying ears of his other agents. "Why are you doing this?"

"Well I could tell you were kinda unsettled…"

"Try again."

"Okay, I was networking."

"You enjoying wasting my time?"

"I don't see the point." The cheerful tone dropped off.

"You want every damn person to like you. Why do you refuse to charm Vance?"

"Not _every_ person."

Gibbs let the silence work in his favor again.

Tony sighed. "Gibbs, I don't want to talk about this right now, okay? Would you like to talk about whatever's bothering you? No? Didn't think so."

"Hey!" The barked reprimand implied the virtual head slap.

"Boss, when we get back I'll stay out of his way and things will just go back to normal."

"You get your ass slung back on a ship, it won't be so easy for me to drag it back again."

Tony said more softly, "It wasn't easy the first time, I know. I'll…I will try not to purposely piss him off for a while."

Gibbs snorted.

Tony's returning smile was obvious in his voice. "Hey, can I tell you a Mountie ghost story I just heard? It's really great."

"DiNozzo!"

"Shutting up boss, no problem!"

Gibbs hung up. Affectionately.

Something still wasn't right. But he felt more centered now, and returned back to his desk. Though he scowled at David and McGee, he noticed that they seemed relieved as they dove back into their piles of paperwork.

* * *

After the line went dead, Tony stared at his phone for a minute. Then he hit number three on his speed dial.

"Abby's house of horrors, hijinks and hounds! Abby speaking."

"Need a favor."

"What's up, Tony?"

"Make Gibbs take you out to dinner. Okay?"

"Okay!" Abby cheerfully accepted the quiet demand.

Tony smiled, something he rarely did when no one could see him. "See you soon Abs."

He was very glad he was flying home tomorrow night. He'd been gone from home for too long.

* * *

He'd tried to stay beige, unnoticeable, for his last day at the conference. He did not intentionally try to piss Vance off. Really, it wasn't Tony's fault at all.

A group of thirty or so new friends decided to see him off. Was that his fault?

So they happened to be a little loud. And maybe some of them were a tad vulgar in their humor. And maybe they were blocking the hotel door. Well, all the hotel doors. But he didn't orchestrate it! He wasn't even encouraging it! Not his fault.

Finally they weaseled their way out with the help of one of Vance's bodyguards, or manservants – whatever they were, they were always quiet and bulky.

Vance looked a little dazed. Dazed and pissed. He said aloud, but to no one in particular, "Was that a general? Was that an honest to god US general reciting Monty Python in an attempt to get you to stay another night?"

Tony thought maybe quiet would be a good idea, so he worked very hard at keeping his mouth shut the entire ride to the airport. And during check in. And while they walked through the security line.

Shortly thereafter his phone rang. He checked the screen and answered. Surely Vance couldn't disapprove of this friend. "McGee! You broke my concentration. That's thirty lashes with a licorice whip tomorrow. What's new, buddy?"

"Tony…" McGee swallowed audibly. It was a sound Tony had heard before. McGee had to tell him something he was afraid to say out loud. Something very not good. "I don't…"

"McGee. Who?"

"Gibbs."

"Where is he, Tim? Where is Gibbs?"

"He's gone, Tony. Someone's taken him."

* * *

_I welcome your comments! Is it annoying that it started with humorous chapters and is moving into more dramatic materials? I couldn't bring myself to jump straight into the drama._


	5. Chapter 5

"_Where is he, Tim? Where is Gibbs?"_

"_He's gone, Tony. Someone's taken him."_

* * *

"I need more information, McGee. What do you know?"

"Metro found his car. There was an accident. Well it doesn't really look accidental…" Tim swallowed convulsively again. Tony could hear his breath huffing irregularly, as though he was starting syllables of sentences he could not force out.

Quietly, Tony said , "McGee. Listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yeah, Tony."

"You might be my probie for life, but you are not a probie any more. You are an experienced federal agent," he continued, voice rising with each word. "You are beyond capable. And you are my man on the ground right now. So take a deep breath, turn off the emotion, and give me the SITREP!"

There was a moment of painful silence while McGee breathed. Finally, "Metro was notified by a homeowner approximately 75 minutes ago that there was a traffic disturbance in the area and a car had been left abandoned in a local intersection. When Metro ran the plates and saw the car belonged to an NCIS agent, they called dispatch, who called me since you were out."

"An accident? So it's possible he left the car and chased after someone on foot? Or wandered away?" Amnesia Gibbs was not anyone's favorite Gibbs, but it was better than certain alternatives.

"Unlikely. It's dark, but there are obvious fresh skid marks at various points going back at least two miles along the course we assume Gibbs was taking towards his house. Ziva's following them as best she can now with one of the Metro detectives to see if they can determine where the pursuit started. Preliminary results indicate that at least two other vehicles were chasing him. Metro found what we think may be one of the two chase cars rolled on the side of a street not far from here."

Tony made a questioning noise.

"No, no bodies, car reported stolen from Virginia two days ago. There is some blood inside – quite a bit of blood I'm told. I haven't been to that scene yet."

"And Gibbs' car?"

"It looks like a third vehicle came at him head-on as he approached this intersection. His car was kinda smushed between the two attackers."

"Kinda smushed, McGoo?? That covers too many visuals." Bad visuals. Bad, bad pictures flashing through his head.

"Ahh, well the guy that was still behind him clipped him on the rear right fender and the guy coming straight at him hit off center, front end, driver's side. All three cars spun. No evidence that anyone rolled, or that the other two cars were totaled. Gibbs' car is in rough shape, but the airbag went off and there's no reason to assume the crash would've caused serious injury."

Tony became aware that Vance was pushing against his left side. He waved his hand at the man's face. Whatever he wanted could wait.

"Blood, McGee?"

"Yeah…yeah there is some blood in his car. Not crazy blood. But some. Can't tell yet if there's traces on the pavement. Working on it. I thought I should call you once we had…something."

"Gibbs' phone?"

"On the driver's seat of the car."

"McGee, who does Metro have on this?"

"Some uniforms, and for the moment two detectives. Prifey and, um, Holderson. Holderson is with Ziva."

"Prifey – good. That's good. McGee, remind him he owes me, and get him to stay until I get there."

"Okay, Tony. When – "

Tony's absolute concentration on McGee's words was finally broken when Vance's pushing turned into a violent shove, hard enough to make him stumble. Snarling, Tony turned to tell him off, only to see a line of little motorized airport cars full of elderly Japanese tourists stuck behind him.

Apparently he had stopped in the middle of the hallway.

And the five little transports were all beeping at him in high-pitched complaint.

Oops.

He moved to the side of the wall, smiled and waved at the tourists as though he were just another attraction, and promptly forgot them as he refocused on his conversation.

Checking his watch, he confirmed, "We're in the air in less than an hour; I should be to you within three. Text me the address."

"Of course. Should I call Abby and Ducky?"

"No. I can do it from here. I'll make all the calls."

Relief, probie-style, could be communicated over phone lines with no noise at all. Who knew?

"You focus on running the scene, McGee. Nothing else. Just the scene. You got that?"

"Yes, Tony."

McGee sounded a little annoyed now. Good, then he was regaining his composure. Just be sure, "You want a babysitter? I can get one of the older field agents to come out and hold your hand. Sing you little songs. Calming tunes to soothe your McScared little soul." He started humming. Loudly.

"I'm FINE, Tony. Go make your calls." McGee sounded snarky. Much better.

Satisfied, Tony stopped the mash-up of Puff the Magic Dragon and We Are the World he had just raced through in his head. He'd keep it stored there, though. That would surely come in handy one day.

"McGee, until I arrive you stay with Prifey or Ziva, understand?"

"I do NOT need a babysitter, I am MORE than perfectly capable – "

"Not what I meant, Tim. Those two detectives are both good cops. Until we know what you're dealing with, you stay with one of them or with Ziva. Same goes for her. You got me?"

"Okay." Kid sounded slightly abashed. But only slightly.

Good.

Resisting the urge to tell McGee how important it was that he be thorough at the scene, at this scene in particular, he signed off instead with, "Go back to work," and hung up. Gibbs-style.

Immediate conversation over, he let his thoughts run crazy and free for a moment. Then he started organizing, filing, storing, making priorities and lists with one half of his mind. (To him it always felt like the right half did all the labor). The other half he let run wild. Some of his best ideas came from the wild half.

And if ever there was a time for extraordinary ideas, it was most certainly now.

* * *

Vance deduced the nature of the phone call by listening in. He assumed that the agent would turn to him after the call with McGee and give him the facts. But he just stood there, either frozen or lost in thought.

Maybe he should just take charge of this investigation now. Or assign it to another lead investigator's team.

He snapped his fingers in front of DiNozzo's face and received another swat in return. Grumbling, he placed himself behind the agent and started pushing him towards the gate they needed. Thankfully, whatever was going on in his head, at least his feet worked when prompted.

Abruptly, DiNozzo opened his phone again and pressed one button.

"Ducky." A pause. "Yes, it was fine. Maybe a little more entertaining than the Director was expecting."

Vance pushed harder.

"That's great Ducky, you'll have to tell me the whole story later. Ducky, I have to tell you something…" Tony recapped McGee's information for the doctor, which Vance listened to intently.

Damn.

He listened as DiNozzo gave the older man instructions. Don't go anywhere alone, don't worry, go to the office, start working on the list of Gibbs' enemies again – again? How often did they have to update that list exactly? – don't share information with anyone but Abby, McGee or Ziva until Tony returned, etc etc.

As soon as he hung up, DiNozzo called Abby and had much the same conversation, though he spent more time reassuring and attempting to calm Ms Scuito.

After that he called the front desk of the NCIS building and asked the agent on duty to pull the external and internal security tapes for the last week and send them to McGee's computer.

Then he called Delores from HR and asked her to pull a list of any new or newly let go staff and leave it on his desk. She seemed to agree.

Startled by the revelation that Delores would listen to someone, he missed the next short call DiNozzo made.

After that it was a series of calls to other cops in the area asking questions about like crimes and the stolen car Metro had found. Then a series of calls to businesses apparently along Gibbs' normal route home requesting to know if they had seen Gibbs that evening or had external security footage that could be sent. He never called information or consulted a map. And he seemed to be on a first-name basis with half the proprietors he spoke to.

Then a call back to Abby, asking her to trace the GPS on Gibbs' car to ensure that he had driven the path they assumed while she awaited evidence from the scene to start arriving. Since that seemed like something McGee would have done right away, Vance wasn't sure if he was being extra careful or if he was just finding work to keep the scientist busy.

DiNozzo finally looked over at Vance, as though just registering his presence. Instead of apologies and explanations, however, DiNozzo had an order for him as well.

"Director, can you call the office and get a couple experienced agents loaned to McGee for a few hours to canvas houses in the area immediate to the scene? By the time he's finished processing the scene it'll be too late to knock on doors in that neighborhood."

He wanted to refuse on principle. But it was not an unreasonable request, so Vance placed the call. As soon as he started talking, DiNozzo sent another text and then resumed his rapid-fire phone calls. He stayed on the phone until the flight crew forced him to turn off his phone.

DiNozzo had placed 37 calls in a little over one hour.

Was that impressive? Or a useless way for the man to waste time?

* * *

Tony smiled at the flight attendant as she firmly repeated her request that he power off his phone. This time, he complied.

"Cassie, right? Can I call you Cassie?"

"Yes sir, of course."

"Cassie, I'm Tony." He flipped his ID open casually, keeping it next to his chest so that other nearby passengers would not see it. "Cassie, my partner is missing."

Vance stiffened beside him.

Cassie's eyes, heavy with mascara, forced themselves open widely.

"Missing…from the plane?" She sounded as though she knew that was an unlikely description of what he meant.

"No, missing as in kidnapped in DC." Tony's eyes never left hers. "I know you can't make the plan go faster. I know there is very little that you can do to get me on the ground and on my way faster. But any minute, any second you can give me, Cassie – it's very important. I need to get to my partner."

She nodded continuously, as though she had forgotten she started and now was just carrying on the motion through inertia. "I can make sure you get off the plane first. And we can radio ahead to customs – they might be able to rush you through, as a federal agent."

Tony nodded his thanks and tucked his id and phone inside his suit jacket.

Cassie started at him for another minute, then bolted towards the front of the plane, presumably to share the news.

Tony crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

Vance's voice soon interrupted his pretend calm. "You're _sleeping_ now? You can really sleep right now, in this situation."

Without opening his eyes, DiNozzo slid further down in his seat and replied, "Sure. Gotta learn to sleep whenever you get the chance. It's one of Gibbs' rules. Won't have time to soon."

Vance was thankfully quiet after that. Tony slowly counted out five minutes, then slowed his breathing to emulate sleep.

There wasn't anything he could do for the next hour and nineteen minutes. He had to sit still, accomplishing nothing, contributing nothing to the search for the man who meant -

That way lie madness.

Tony spent the next hour and nineteen minutes pretending he was not panicking.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks for your comments! Special mention goes to Bob Rhynoplasty, since a simple remark she made seemed like a crazy revelation to me. I mighta sorta stole your comment..._

_Forgot to mention it before, but I have most certainly never been to a security conference, and am assuming that I in no way described what actually happens at one._

_Hope you stick around for more of the story! It's harder for me to write the serious stuff, but I'll try to be faster with posting. _

* * *

Tony tossed two fifty dollar bills at the cabbie and yanked open the door. He darted around traffic, through parked emergency vehicles and flashed his badge at a uniform manning the perimeter.

Though the sun was down, the taped-off intersection was hardly dark. Floodlights worthy of a baseball stadium sat at each corner, and the flashing red and blue lights of a half dozen cop cars skirted the edges of the large pool of artificially yellow light.

He briefly considered that a half dozen was far more squad cars than he expected to still be here, four hours after NCIS took over the scene. But that thought skittered away as he squelched the urge to slip away and be sick in someone's back yard.

He slowed to a sedate walk as soon as he could see McGee, whose unmistakable rear end was sticking out of the now bread-shaped opening of Gibbs' car door.

Tony ruthlessly controlled his breathing. He learned at a young age that irregular breathing gave too much away. He used the trick his mother had taught him so long ago, to breathe and walk to the measured ticks of a metronome. Mentally, he set the pendulum to swinging.

_One…two…three…four. Two…two…three…four…_

One breath in for a four count, one breath out for a four count.

Regular-sized steps on each beat. No faster.

As he approached McGee's thinner but still ill-tailored backside his body took over the count, enforcing and maintaining regular breathing and a slower heartbeat.

Tony found his body easier to train to routine tasks than his mind. Sometimes his mind was downright unruly.

"Don't jump and hit your head, McGee."

At Tony's words, McGee jumped and hit his head.

McGee backed out and stood up straight, fidgeting with the fit of his NCIS cap. Tony smiled at him, just a little. McGee smiled back.

Just a little.

Then the younger agent stuck his hand out, a formality they did not normally engage in. Tony returned the gesture immediately, and they shook hands for just a moment longer than was called for.

"What do we know, Tim?"

"All our preliminary findings are still holding, at the moment. We're about finished at both scenes; some boxes of evidence were already taken to Abby and the cars are being towed to the garage in the next few minutes. I was just waiting for you to get here, thought you'd want to see the layout before we moved the big pieces around."

"You thought right." Tony turned and started walking the scene, taking in the position of the vehicle and the various parts of vehicle strewn around the pavement.

He paused.

Starting at Gibbs' open car door there was a trail of blood with one of their numerical scene markers. #6.

The blood stain was shaped like West Virginia.

Deep breath. Moving on.

"Where's the backup you're supposed to have?"

McGee gestured with his chin towards a figure outlined by the flashing lights, just outside the brighter area of light.

"Had to make a call. He's been right here the whole time."

"Ziva?"

"She's nearby; she and the other Metro detective just finished at the secondary scene."

"Hmm." Tony continued his walk around the scene. McGee awkwardly wiggled himself back through the deformed car door.

Detective Andy Prifey's bulky frame walked towards him. "DiNozzo! I thought of a better use for that money you spend on all those sissy clothes."

"Better than the castle made out of Starburst? I liked that one."

Prifey gestured with a big, beefy hand. He bore a strong resemblance to Ron Perlman. Perhaps a stronger resemblance to Hellboy, actually. "Impractical. It would melt in the rain eventually."

"Yes, that _is_ the only reason that would be impractical."

"I think you should invest it."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Invest it?" That comment was destined to lead to something less normal-sounding…

"Someplace that specializes in roses and pastrami."

That was more like it.

"Seems like every time I get in trouble with the missus, I end up sending her flowers. And every time they arrive, I realize I should have spent the money on food instead. 'Cuz she sure as hell isn't cooking while she's mad at me."

Tony nodded encouragingly.

"So I figure, why can't there be a place that delivers the flowers and the food? Nothing fancy. Just a bunch of roses wrapped up in paper and a sandwich. Hell, they can use the same roll of paper to wrap the sandwich, I'm not picky."

"It's a million dollar idea."

"Damn straight." Prifey glanced behind Tony in an obvious gesture and looked back at him questioningly.

Tony turned. The Director was standing about 10 feet behind him.

Huh. He had forgotten about him. Why hadn't Vance gone back to the office in the cab?

Why was Vance staring at him like that?

Without breaking the unmoving man's gaze, Tony gestured towards him. "Detective Prifey of Metro, meet the Director of NCIS, Leon Vance. Sir, Prifey's been with Metro going on 20 years now. He's a good cop."

There was a tense silence, finally broken by McGee's approach. "Director! I hope your trip went well, sir."

Tony glanced at Prifey, whose gestures repeated his earlier intended question. _Is this guy okay?_

DiNozzo responded with a slight shrug. _What choice have we got?_

Aloud, he murmured, "Andy. Anything?"

Prifey scratched his stubble and decided to ignore the suit in the background. DiNozzo might wear suits. He might even like wearing suits. But he wasn't a suit himself. "You remember that scrawny kid, Delgato?"

"Yeah."

"He's my captain now. Ain't that just the way? Dumbass kid who probably played little league more years than he's been a cop is running my life." Prifey eyed the NCIS Director again. He didn't look very old.

Tony rubbed the back of his neck. "Well there are worse guys, right?"

Sighing, Prifey allowed, "Yeah, he's not so bad. Maybe even decent." He stuck a finger in Tony's face. "Don't you ever repeat that I said that!"

DiNozzo drew an x over his heart.

Prifey grunted. "Delgato remembers you."

McGee somewhat nervously asked, "That's – bad?"

Prifey grinned wolfishly at him. "That's – good, kid. Very good."

Tony tried for a smirk of self-confidence. "Of course it's good. That why there are so many units parked here still?"

"Yep. Authorized the use of sixteen patrolmen for a few hours. They picked up where your NCIS agents left off knocking on doors. Should extend another mile or so back the way your boss came from, and a few blocks back the way the head-on driver came from."

Tony's eyes closed involuntarily for a moment. _16._ They couldn't have hoped for that. Hell, they couldn't have mustered 16 guys of their own out of NCIS right now. Whether or not anything came of it, it was a lot. "Any hits?"

"I'll take a full report from each team as they check in tonight. Shouldn't be much longer."

"Thank you, Andy. And thanks for keeping an eye on McGiggles here." Tony's words were light but his expression was serious bordering on painful.

"Yeah, kid's a regular laugh riot." More quietly, he continued, "I know what Gibbs means to you. You let me know if there's anything else we can do."

"Thanks, man. Tell Delgato I owe him one." Tony wanted to say something more substantial, but he couldn't afford to, not with Vance glaring over his shoulder and McGee hanging on their every word.

But Prifey understood. He turned and walked away, hand raised in farewell. "You two keep an eye on each other."

Two cars pulled up as Prifey ducked under the crime tape. Ziva stepped out of the passenger side of one, exchanging a few words with the detective as he took her place, and the unmarked cop car tore off. She spotted Tony and slowly walked towards him, eyes continuously flicking up to meet his, then flicking away, as though she could not stand to hold his gaze for long.

Before Africa she would have stared at him and stalked over. Or sauntered. Now she just walked. Quietly.

He wanted to lean into her, brush shoulders, brush sides. It was Ziva who had started invading his personal space years ago, who always sat closer than a woman normally would, who got in his face, who was always right _there._

But tonight she stopped short of where he and McGee stood, looking up at him with worried eyes.

She had always been shorter than he was. But he didn't remember her looking up at him before.

"Tony," she greeted him. "I have very little information other than what McGee already told you. The car from the second scene has already been towed to the NCIS garage. I hope Abby will have more luck. The NCIS agents canvassing the area gained no useful information."

Tony nodded. He wished the Director would leave.

The other car that had pulled up was more easily identifiable. Tony's eyes narrowed as the medical examiner exited the car and approached him. If he had left on his own after being explicitly warned…

Jimmy Palmer exited the car on the other side, muttering about crazy English drivers.

DiNozzo relaxed a little.

"My dear boy, it is so very good to see you. It feels as though it has been ages, rather than one week." Ducky approached and pulled the senior field agent into a quick, tight hug. Tony was surprised, but only for a moment. Ducky didn't make a habit of sharing his worries with just anyone; this was just a sign of how upset the man was.

Palmer looked like he considered following suit, then settled for waving both hands with a big doofy grin and an, "Umm, hi!" Ah, Jimmy. The leader of Awh Shucks moments if ever there was one.

Tony tried to look stern. "Ducky, it's good to see you too. But why did you come out here? There are no bodies." Thank god. "I need you working on those lists." And safe back at the Navy Yard.

"I couldn't not, Anthony. I needed to see this place for myself. I did restrain myself until Mr. Palmer was able to join me." Ducky took a few steps to the side, glancing around the scene. He didn't seem to be taking much in.

"Ziva, McGee, tell Ducky what you can." Ducky took Ziva's arm as McGee began talking, leading their little group back to Gibbs' car.

Tony let out an immense sigh, and allowed his hand to reach up and rest on Palmer's nearest shoulder. Jimmy turned to look at him, eyes big and trusting behind his Clark Kent lenses.

"Ducky's okay. He's just restless and wanted to be around the team. I checked in on Abby before we left. She's – well you know Abby. She's working, so she's holding it together. But you should get to her soon."

Tony nodded his agreement. "Keep it up, Palmer. You know the drill."

Jimmy nodded sharply, once. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to be reassured. But he knew from the look on his friend's face that now was not the time, so instead, he tried to smile his own reassurance.

The result was rather gruesome.

Tony chuckled, and choked on his own dry throat. He laughed. He caught a glimpse of Vance staring at him and he laughed harder.

He slapped Jimmy on the back and stood up straight, stretching his recently underused body to try and get more blood flowing. Conferences and airports weren't very conducive to exercise. "Come, my people!" His voice boomed out into the night. "Palmer, make sure Ducky and the Director get back to the office in one piece. McGee, Ziva, we have work to do. Come on, let's go!"

Ducky patted Ziva on the arm and willingly walked back towards his car. "We'll see you in the office soon, then," he called out.

Jimmy plastered a big grin on his face. "Director! Have you ever had the chance to ride in Dr. Mallard's car? It's really quite the experience." He chattered incessantly while herding Vance away from Tony.

Finally!

His partners were still over by Gibbs' vehicle. This would not do. "Campfire!" He yelled out.

McGee looked annoyed, but they both came over to him. "Tony, we don't even have –"

Tony stared him down. "Campfire!"

Once the reluctant younger man was close enough, Tony swung and arm over his shoulder. He then took a chance and reached out to place his arm gently around Ziva's waist. She looked startled, but did not resist.

He pulled them both in closer, until they were touching each other as well, forming a small circle. "Here's what we know: Someone took Gibbs. It was organized, there were at least three pursuing cars, meaning three or more kidnappers involved."

McGee quickly added, "Gibbs' car was damaged, and he was most likely injured. But we have every reason to believe he was alive, and no reason not to assume he was fighting when they took him."

Ziva said, "Gibbs was aware of what was happening before the third car joined the chase; whatever their number is, the kidnappers are down by one from the car he forced off of the road. Either one member is dead or they are hampered by dragging along one very injured cohort."

Tony admitted, "We have no idea who these kidnappers may be yet. But we have a garage full of evidence to be processed, and a list of Gibbs haters to check on. It's been five hours. He'll hold on. He's Gibbs."

All three of them stood straighter.

Ziva started a thought, "Tony, I have known many crazy people in my life, and I would not be surprised if someone tried to kill Gibbs, but…"

Tony finished it for her, "But who the hell would be dumb enough to _kidnap_ Gibbs? That is seriously stupid."

Cheered by the thought of the damage their leader was capable of inflicting on a whole army of bad guys all by himself, team Gibbs started tossing around ideas as a tow truck arrived to collect their last piece of evidence.

Tony listened to his partners enthusiastically spilling out ideas, occasionally contributing a useful or outrageous bit himself.

He was also worrying about Abby. Formulating a list of people he still needed to call. Calculating how much damage could be done to one man in five hours of captivity.

And breathing.

_One…two…three…four. Two…two…three…four…_


	7. Chapter 7

_A smaller chapter this time, but I thought small might be better than nothing. You know, when I decided to try my hand at writing here, I thought the hardest part would be keeping in character. But I have been most decisively corrected by my actual experiences. It is amazingly hard to post part of an in-process story and not be able to go back and change previous portions as your later chapters may demand!! (I realize technically I can repost, but am fighting the urge.) My compliments to those of you who do not find this to be a problem; you are amazing to me._

_And thanks, as always, to the adders, reveiwers and shy readers who do neither but continue to return. Feel free to share your opinions and wish list for the story; I will read all of them. For those of you who asked for Vance's and Gibbs' POV, here you go (just a teaser for Gibbs, don't get too excited yet...)._

* * *

Vance glanced at Ducky's Morgan, then turned back to Palmer and raised an eyebrow.

"Well, sir, it might be a bit of a tight squeeze, but I'm sure we can manage!" Jimmy smiled nervously.

When both the Director and Dr. Mallard continued looking at him, unmoving, he dropped his smile, awkwardly yelled out, "I'll sit in the middle!" and dove into the car.

Vance turned to the medical examiner and raised his other eyebrow.

"Yes, well, he meant well. You don't happen to have any larger pieces of luggage with you other than your carryon there, do you?" Ducky gestured towards the plain black computer bag hanging from Vance's shoulder. "I'm afraid we might have a serious problem if you do."

"No, DiNozzo called someone to pick up our checked luggage at the airport."

"Ah, well, of course. I should have known he would think of that."

"Really? Surprised me."

"Anthony is quite good with details in most circumstances. His capacity to remember small tidbits, often thought inconsequential, and apply them at just the right moment is one of the assets he brings to this team."

"Or is what you consider an intentional pattern of behavior really just further evidence of the man's erratic performance?"

Ducky chuckled. "Erratic? Hardly. The line between adaptable and erratic is not so thin." He turned towards the field team, who stood outlined by the massively bright lights flooding the intersection. "Do you see how they are standing now? Further away from each other than they normally would?"

Vance grunted in acknowledgement.

"Give it a moment, Tony will rectify the situation."

They continued to watch, and Ducky continued to talk.

"I suppose I can see how one who did not know the man well might see his behavior as erratic, especially if samples of said behavior were only glimpses here and there. He certainly is capable of achieving wildly polar opposites in mere moments. But there is always a reason, elusive as that reason may sometimes seem."

Tony yelled something short and sharp at McGee and Ziva, and they began to drift towards him.

"Let me tell you a story about a truly erratic lad I knew back at medical school. Poor fellow couldn't even –"

"Doctor, let me ask you a question first."

"Of course, Director."

"When you arrived, you seemed very agitated."

Tony reached out and grabbed McGee around the shoulder, and pulled Ziva against them as well. They all stood stiffly.

"Well, please allow that a close friend of mine has just been kidnapped. I suppose I am a little upset." Ducky sounded miffed.

"You're a little upset now. You were more upset when you arrived. What changed?"

A furrow developed in the older man's forehead. "Well Tony arrived, of course."

"That reassures you?"

"Director, it makes all the difference in the world. We have a leader now."

The three teammates relaxed into each other.

"We'll see."

"You are welcome to wait and see as you like. I, for one, will take solace in the presence of our temporary, but capable leader. And I am not the only one who will do so."

Ducky walked around to the driver's door, but paused before opening it. "It may not mean much to you, but he is the only one who can hold this team together in the absence of Gibbs. I understand this is but one team of many. But for those of us who consider ourselves part of the team, I assure you, there is not another one like it."

Had either of them looked back into the pools of light at that moment, they would have seen wild gesturing, followed by all three members of Team Gibbs turning in the same direction in resolute purpose. Shortly thereafter, they would have seen one member steal another member's cap and gleefully race off towards the tow truck with it.

Vance opened the passenger side door. Jimmy was sitting on the hump behind the gear shift with his long legs pulled tight into his chest, and his arms wrapped around them. He loosened one hand to wave at the director, and promptly fell over.

* * *

Gibbs awoke suddenly.

He recalled immediately the events before he blacked out. He kept his eyes shut and his breathing even, trying to feel out where he was sitting by moving one small muscle at a time.

Where he was sitting moved.

No, it rocked.

He slitted his eyes open and, seeing no one, opened them as fully as his headache would allow. He was in a brightly lit yellow kitchen, seated in a solid old wooden rocking chair. His hands were cuffed behind the chair and it sure felt like the cuffs were bolted to the wall.

In front of him on a grey wooden island the color of driftwood was a plate of donuts. Off to the side of the room, a coffeemaker sat percolating on a butcher block countertop.

Gibbs wrenched his wrists, tried to pull his feet loose from where they were tied to the rockers, and tried to tip the chair over. No luck.

He stared at the coffee.

So it was going to be torture, then.


	8. Chapter 8

_I have deleted and rewritten, tweaked and revamped this freakin' chapter for weeks and I am still not happy with it. I reached out to a couple of betas but never heard back, so I give up! I am posting it as-is, so I'll stop making changes. Please let me know what you do and don't appreciate, hopefully that'll help determine the precise course of the next chapter, which is also not my friend right now._

_Would someone kindly explain to me how challenges work?_

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Tony hummed in gratitude as he slid out of the now-still car and his feet encountered solid ground. He'd felt disconnected since McGee's call earlier, like he wasn't really able to fully absorb what was happening. But riding in a car with Ziva driving always put a new perspective on grounded. Each time you got in the car with her you thought you knew what was coming. Each time it was terrifying all over again.

He took a few steps to prove to his sense of balance that the concrete wasn't going to shift on him.

Yes, solid ground was reassuring.

Behind him, McGee and Ziva were halfheartedly bickering, an unexpected turn of events. Tony wasn't sure what prompted Ziva to nab McGee's NCIS cap and run off. But the display of levity from their Israeli partner was welcome, even if it did feel forced. Usually Tony was the only one who started what he liked to think were mood-improvers like that.

Everything was shifting already.

And that was fine. That was good, even. The team could compensate for the temporary absence of any of its members.

Temporary.

He stopped at the scratched heavy metal door that led from the parking garage into NCIS proper. His agents stopped behind him, silent now, waiting for his move.

Huh. _His agents._ Not his fellow agents or his partners, but his agents. People he was responsible for.

Tony tapped the pads of the fingers of his right hand against the cold metal door.

He shoved all of his doubts, all of his personal worries away. What right did he have to worry about himself, to worry about slipping back into who he used to be? The man who had wrested him out of that situation was in danger. That was all that mattered.

His hand was steady as he opened the door.

Leading his team down to their desks, he assigned tasks. "McGee, check out Gibbs' computer. Maybe there's something useful on it." They all stared doubtfully at each other.

Tony added, "Go through all the post-its he has on his desk, too. And find some charcoal or something to rub over the top pages of his blank notepads."

McGee nodded.

"Ziva, check his phone calls in and out from his cell, work and home lines for the last month. See if anything stands out."

"Yes, Tony."

They both got to work. He wanted to pester them, to make them smile or even frown. He wanted to throw paper balls at them, shoot rubber bands, to sprinkle a packet of sugar crystals in Ziva's hair or rename files on McGee's computer with lewd suggestions. They looked so serious, so studious.

"We'll regroup when I get back."

They didn't ask where he was going.

* * *

It was worse than he'd feared.

Abby's lab was silent.

No music at all. When was the last time he'd come in here when she was alone without music?

After Kate died?

He slowed as he entered the room, expecting an Abby-shaped bullet to strike him bodily. It didn't come.

"Abs?" He addressed her back as she worked on one of her many computers.

Her voice came slowly, even lower and more gravelly than normal. "I think I found something. I'm still working on it."

"Already? What've you got, Abs?"

At the familiar line, the scientist half-turned, still not looking him in the eye. She was stiff, slow, without the animation that was usually there. This was worrisome! Abby got overly emotional if one of the team sneezed or tore a cuticle. And Gibbs was like her personal god.

"I haven't had time to go through anything but the first car Ziva and McGee had towed here, and I'm not even done with that one yet. But there was a lot of wet sand packed up in the grooves of the tires. It's not a common composition. Based on…" Here, Tony heard only technobabble he did not care to process. "…so I can say with certainty that this car was in northern Maryland within the last day."

"Abs, that's fantastic." And he would feel relieved they had any clues at all if she would cease being Zombie Barbie. "The car was stolen in Virginia; the bad guys must have been the ones driving it in Maryland. That's the first solid lead we've had! Can you narrow down the area any further?"

She nodded choppily. "That's what I'm working on right now. I'll leave Major Mass-Spec to it while I go back to the garage to finish checking out the cars."

She turned to leave the lab.

She still had not looked at him.

"Abby…" He started towards her.

She backed away from him, arms crossed across her chest. Turned towards the wall and stopped.

Unsure of what was going through her head, he stayed where he was.

"Abby, it'll be fine. You'll see. We will find him."

She edged closer to the wall and put her hand on it, as though taking support. Her pigtails were uneven and drooping.

Quietly, without pleading (he hoped), he insisted, "I can do this Abs. I will bring him back."

She whirled around, lab coat swirling about her like a cape. Her eyes were so full of tears it seemed impossible they had not flooded over, but her cheeks were dry and paper white. Her gaze finally met his, and in a more voice more natural to her, she reassured, "Oh Tony, I know you will!"

Her hand on the wall had been resting on a collage of postcards he'd mailed her from his time as agent afloat.

She began to move towards him but jerked to a stop and bounced in place, face full of anguish.

Worried and confused, Tony started towards her again.

"Tony, no!" He paused, bewildered. "If you come over here I'm going to start sobbing like crazy. And I don't know if I can hold it together this time! Every time one of you gets yourself in trouble it's harder than the last time. And I can't lose it now! Gibbs needs me, Tony. _You_ need me."

"Abs, I always need you. You're irreplaceable." It was the highest compliment he could think to give.

She tried to straighten up and stuck her fists down by her sides. "Tony, I'm not messing around! I always fall apart when something happens to the team. And when it's really bad, like so bad I can't even try to explain it except to say it's like huge nasty anticipation of the worst fear in the whole sphere of existence –"

At least she was starting to sound like Abby. Tony started towards her again.

She scuttled to the side, but continued forcefully. "No, I mean it! When it's really, really bad, it's always you who holds me together. My rock."

"I don't get it, Abby. What's different this time? Gibbs has been in trouble before. We've all been in trouble before, even you. Even Ducky. Damn, even Palmer! What's got you so twisted this time?"

"I messed it up!" she wailed.

"Messed _what_ up?"

"I know you Tony. This has to be so hard on you. And who's your rock, if Gibbs is gone?" She bit straight through her lip, and a drop of blood appeared, slowly trickling down her chin, as though mocking the impotent tears, still locked behind some invisible dam.

"I can try to be your rock, for once."

The world went roaring white for a moment.

Tony was mortified to feel tears come to his own eyes.

He advanced upon her. She danced to the side, watching him.

He stalked her, narrowing her area for movement with each step. She hit the wall, and slid along it until she reached the corner. He kept advancing until he had effectively pinned her to the wall with his body.

Slowly, he slipped his arms around her, pulling her towards him and away from the wall. He allowed himself the indulgence of pressing his face into the spot where her neck met her left shoulder, his favorite part of the human body.

Tony was a talker. He talked when he was bored, uncomfortable or nervous. He talked when he was thinking through something, when he was trying to alleviate tension and when he was trying to distract someone. He'd talked for hours before without needed to pause.

He couldn't think of anything to say just now.

Abby started to shake. He felt her tears start; hot splashes against the side of his face. She sobbed once, and her weight suddenly fell against him, as though her legs would not support her.

He caught her, and slowly let them both sink to the floor. Abby wasn't a tiny person, but she managed to curl herself up tight enough to fit in his lap, head tucked under his chin, face turned into his chest.

His back now to the wall, he started stroking her hair, letting his hand run from the top of her head down to the tip of one pig tail, then the other.

The elevator pinged. Expecting to see McGee or Ziva, Tony did not move.

Vance entered the room. He stared. Slowly, he took a small plastic pouch out of his breast pocket, unwrapped a toothpick, and shoved it in his mouth. "Am I interrupting something?"

Tony's eyes darkened at the other man's disrespectful tone, and his face hardened to the rock Abby had accused him of being. "Director. I'm just getting an update on the forensics. I will come up to your office momentarily to give you a full briefing on the status of the investigation."

Having effectively dismissed his superior, Tony turned his attention back to Abby. He straightened her pigtails, then tweaked them.

Strangely, he did not find it hard at all to bring a smile to his face.

"Abs. Feel better?"

She nodded, still curled into him.

"Good!" He stood up suddenly, taking her with him, then placed her back on her feet and placed a kiss on the top of her head. "Time to get back to work."

She swiped a hand across her face, but smiled in return. "Slave driver."

He straightened his suit jacket. "Damn straight." Then he walked towards the elevator, glad to see that Vance had indeed left.

Riding the elevator with him right now might not be so much fun.

He turned back to Abby as he went through the lab door, and saw her sniffling but still smiling.

Horrible, brain-wrenching music invaded the previously quiet floor.

Tony smiled.

Back in her lab, Abby smiled too. She had 'forgotten' to tell Tony he had streaked black eyeliner all over his face.

* * *

DiNozzo stopped back in the bullpen to check in on the others' progress only to find Vance grilling Ziva. He was not pleased.

"Have you talked with your father at all recently? The last few times he and I spoke, he seemed very angry with you, with DiNozzo, and especially with Gibbs. If he blames Gibbs for your refusal to return to Mossad…is it possible they are behind his disappearance?"

Ziva returned the director's look cooly. "No."

"That's it? Just no?" The toothpick moved furiously.

She rose from her seat. "No, I have not spoken with Director David. No, I do not consider him my father any longer. No, I do not find it likely that Mossad is behind this. Even if they were unhappy with Gibbs, they would be more likely to…dispose…of him than take him. There is nothing for them to gain by this."

Tony spoke from right behind the director, "And I already talked to my contact there. They're not involved."

Vance spun around, and Ziva relaxed. "I should not be surprised that you have your own contact there now."

"Well I sure as hell find it unlikely. The one time you were in Israel, you were damn close to finding your ass on trial for the murder of a Mossad agent."

DiNozzo did not feel the need to reply, but Ziva stepped in for him. Expression light, her eyes smiled at her partner. "Yes, that is true, but he could not resist the opportunity to form his own information connection while he was there. This is Tony we are speaking of. As it turned out, that contact was a useful thing."

Her expression had saddened at the last, thinking of a whole life now behind her. Tony wanted to say something, but again, could not in the presence of their oh-so-helpful director.

He snapped towards Vance. "Sir. I am ready to report on the status of the investigation. In your office. Sir."

Vance led the way up to his office.

* * *

The wooden pocket door to the kitchen slid open, revealing a young woman's face with big eyes.

That face looked familiar.

"Oh, you're awake!" She walked into the room, and continued softly but with seeming sincerity in her light drawl. "Did you have a nice nap? I hope you're not too uncomfortable. I did find you the best chair in the house. The comfort of a guest should always be the first priority of any lady." That last sounded recited, as though she were repeating someone else's words.

Oh, yeah. Gibbs remembered her.

"I appreciate it." She beamed at him, and he figured what the hell, might as well give it a shot. "Any chance you could let me out of these cuffs? It's pretty uncomfortable like this." He rattled his restraints.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I wish I could, but I'm not supposed to do that right now. Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?"

Gibbs contemplated the coffee. How demeaning would it be to drink the stuff through a straw?

She looked like a grown-up kewpie doll, with not a hair out of place. She watched him intently, waiting, apparently wanting to please.

"You weren't one of the drivers who came after me, were you?"

"Oh, no. Because of the danger, you see."

Oh, yeah. He remembered her all right.


	9. Chapter 9

_So...I'm gonna have to apologize here for the late update. I have many reasons but no good excuses (or is that vice versa?). General business in life and work is only a small factor; I'm just finding everything I write boring, and don't want to post boring chapters for you to read! But I post what may potentially be so below, so that you at least know I have not forgotten. _

_I very much welcome your wish list of characters you would like to see interact, parts of the plotline you would like to see flushed out more/sooner, or featured, and also your ideas of what questions Vance will pose (you'll just have to read below to see what I'm referring to here...it's the only enticement I can think to give!)._

_And on a separate note, I welcome PMs about the season seven finale from those who wish to discuss. I warn you, I was not the biggest fan of this episode. (This is an understatment.)_

_Thanks for reading! Help a girl out and toss some thoughts out, okay? Happy to return the favor if requested._

* * *

"I haven't found a single thing of worth," Ducky muttered to himself. "Nothing of use at all."

As was often the case, what he considered his internal thoughts were answered by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to have damned good hearing. "I'm sure that's not true, Doctor. Even eliminating possibilities must be a great help to the team, and it looks like you've managed to eliminate a long list of incarcerated or deceased people that would otherwise have been considered suspects."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Palmer, we are no closer to finding Jethro through any efforts of mine, are we?"

Jimmy started a new pot of tea.

Ducky returned to his files, agitated but with no better recourse than to continue working his way through the files on his desk.

Less than five minutes passed by before he abruptly pushed away from the desk and began pacing the room.

"Doctor Mallard, if I may make a suggestion?"

"It's not the time to be taking breaks young man, it is time to _concentrate._ Can't you see that?"

"Of course doctor. But as you once told me, if the approach you're taking doesn't sit well with you, what you need is not to give up, but simply another approach."

"And do you, in your great wisdom, have a suggestion as to how one might accomplish that in this particular situation?"

"Ah, not exactly."

"As I thought."

"But in your case, I might suggest more talking, less silent reading."

"I am not a third grader, Mr. Palmer. I do not require periods of interaction interspersed with periods of quiet learning time. I will not pester the others who are investigating this most horrendous act, and I will not overstep and get in their way by interrogating a suspect or speaking with a witness unless I am asked to or at least find some reason for it."

"…Who said anything about witnesses or suspects? It seems to me there are always quieter types with some information they didn't know they had. Even if they are corpses."

In a softer, more speculative voice, Ducky continued the thought, "Yes, well we have no bodies with which to speak yet on this case. But there are always those who have not sung their story yet…" He hurried off towards the elevator leaving Jimmy behind with a nearly full pot of hot tea.

* * *

DiNozzo considered his options as he stalked up the steps, wiping his face with the handkerchief McGee had passed to him.

He could give in to his anger, his frustration, his fears, and tell the director exactly what he was thinking. He might have done that with Jenny. But, then, Jenny might have taken it.

Vance – not so much. And besides, venting often felt like losing control.

Now was not a good time to feel like a loser.

He could go purposefully crazy and get himself thrown off the case, with the intention of pursuing matters on his own. But rogue was more Gibbs that DiNozzo, and Tony was extremely aware that he was currently responsible for the whole team. Leaving them to fend for themselves was a horrifying idea.

He could toe the line – Vance's line – and behave. Follow orders. Show respect. He was capable of it. It was potentially the smartest play to keep him running the investigation.

Yeah. Well. Sometimes you just have to go with your strengths.

Vance threw open his office door. As he started around his desk, DiNozzo dropped down into one of the chairs, sliding down until he was nearly lying down. Then he lazily stretched out his long legs, crossed them at the ankle, and propped his head up on his hand.

Vance turned around, no doubt expecting to be in a position of power. His eyes widened slightly and his nostrils flared when he saw DiNozzo's reclining posture.

Tony fussed with McGee's handkerchief, which he had smartly positioned in his front jacket pocket.

Vance leaned forward, placing both hands on his desk, glaring his best glare.

Tony yawned.

Vance's glare turned to a glower.

Tony smiled. He contemplated telling the director he looked cute trying to out-do a Gibbs glare.

Vance paused. He appeared to be recalculating. But with what intention?

It would've been interesting to play this out and see what course of attack Vance would choose. But there wasn't time.

Tone light, Tony inquired, "I'm just curious, do you intend to keep interfering with my investigation? It'll help me plan things out better if I know how much time to factor in for keeping you happy."

"How did you do it?"

"What's that?"

"Turn Hadar?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Tony's grin remained, but he was surprised and unhappy with this turn in the conversation. This was not on topic.

"We weren't in Israel very long. Most of your time was spent in the 'conference room' or other places where you were being observed. You had no other solo time with any upper-level Mossad agents except the fifteen minute drive from the airport with Officer Hadar. So it stands to reason…"

"Who said my contact was high-ranking?"

"Wouldn't be much help to you if they weren't."

"That's not necessarily true."

"It is in this case. You needed to verify whether or not an operation was in existence; one that would not be common knowledge. And you trust your source, correct? Or should I contact Director David?"

"I trust my source." Tony's smile finally faded. Thinking of Director David tended to do that to him.

"Hmm." Vance sat back in his chair, fingers templed in front of him.

Tony swung one leg over the arm of the director's fancy guest chair and let it swing back and forth.

Stalemate.

Crap. He was going to have to give in again, or risk losing too much time to posturing. He wiggled in the chair to find a more comfortable position and spoke without looking at the man across from him.

"You know, the way people talk around here, you'd think I was the only one who ever got into trouble. The only one framed for murder, the only one who gets almost exploded, the only one who gets hurt on the job. But it's not really true." He paused to buff his fingernails against the soft fabric of his dove gray jacket.

"My boss has been kidnapped." His eyes flicked up to Vance's and then back down to the apparently engrossing subject of his lack of cuticle care. "My partner, really. He trusts me to lead his team, to protect his people, and he trusts me to find him. Which I will. But it would be a whole lot faster if I didn't have to work around you. So let's try this. You ask me whatever questions come to mind, on any topic, for the next five minutes. Then I'm done. I'm going after Gibbs. You can relieve me, in which case I'll leave the office and continue searching on my own. Or you can let me go and do my job and find my missing man." Tony leveled his gaze at the director, the seriousness his face presented at odds with the continued lazy pose. "Five minutes starts now."

* * *

"The phone records are useless, there are no clues here," Ziva stated flatly as she reached the end of another page. Gibbs made and received more calls than she would have expected during periods when the team was not on an active case, but nothing that appeared suspicious or helpful in their investigation.

"Same with his emails and notes," McGee replied with a sigh. "Most of them are just scribbles or words, but I can tie them to recent cases. And I can't find anything in our recent cases that would conceivably tie to a multi-man expedition to kidnap Gibbs."

Ziva looked up towards the director's closed door. McGee mimicked the motion.

"He's not such a bad guy, Ziva. He's probably worried about Gibbs too. He and Tony will work out their differences."

Ziva felt it better not to share her personal response to that.

"You have gone through is mail, McGee?"

"Email and snail mail. Nothing stands out, but then, there wasn't much to begin with."

"Gibbs does get quite a few items from the mail boy, though, does he not? More and more recently."

"Yeah, but he usually gives most of it to Tony to deal with. Just sorts out a few things and tosses them or keeps them at his desk."

"Do you recall him being particularly happy, or annoyed with anything he received? Immediately removing any items?"

McGee's face fell. "Sorry Ziva, I don't."

"You noticed more than I in this case, McGee. That is nothing to be sorry for. Anyway, there is probably nothing to find."

McGee didn't mention that he paid more attention to the incoming mail since Tony's bought with plague. Email may sometimes distribute viruses, but he'd rather have a corrupt pc than a corrupt immune system. Unable to let the matter go, he called down to the mail room in case they could recall anything that stood out from the norm.

They did.

With a trace of excitement, he hung up the phone and turned to Ziva's inquiring face. "They said there have been a steady stream of purple envelopes, satiny in texture, all addressed specifically to Gibbs' in a woman's handwriting. Started coming around two years ago, roughly once per month ever since then. They stopped about two or three months ago."

"That may not be work related."

"True, but the guys in the mail room said that they remembered handing those letters to Gibbs personally a few times, and each time they said his face got scarier."

"That could mean any number of things."

"True. But it could be something."

"Perhaps. But we have not found any of these envelopes. Did your mailmen recall any of the sender's information?"

"No."

More silence.

They had both turned back to recent case files when Ducky strode into the area between their desks.

"Forgive the interruption, but I may have discovered something." Now speaking to two raptly attentive agents, he continued, "I know Anthony already had someone check through the recent NCIS personnel files for persons that may be of interest to this case, and that he has security checking any recent additions to our standard list of delivery persons. However, I did not believe that anyone had begun checking servicemen yet."

"You wish to check all the men and women in the armed service who have passed through these doors in the past however many days, Ducky? That is commendable, but seems impractical," Ziva advised.

"No, my dear, I mean service staff. Not employees of NCIS, not deliverymen or couriers. But, for example," with this he paused and withdrew a DVD from the folder he was carrying, "a new apprentice to the man who fills the vending machines with goods. A new addition, I may add, who was around for only two weeks. And whose employer has confirmed has now disappeared into thin air. Without collecting his final paycheck. I've had security compile a few images of the young man." He offered the DVD to McGee.

It was probably nothing.

But they were all anxious for Tony to return.

Gibbs' gut was contagious. And his team's collective gut was saying there was something hinky about the young disappearing vending man. And about their boss regularly receiving purple satin envelopes.


	10. Chapter 10

Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not a man to readily admit he was in trouble.

However.

If there had been someone handy to admit it to, now would be an acceptable time to make an exception.

Where the hell was DiNozzo?

Big doe eyes watched him patiently as the girl repeated herself once more. "All I want is my fiancée back. If you can just give me some little piece of information about where he is – a phone number, an address, even a city – then maybe we can take you home." She placed an imploring hand on his forearm. "That's all I want, Agent Gibbs. That's not such a bad thing to want, is it?"

He tried to be sincere in his response. "No, Siri, it's not. But he's dead. You saw him in our morgue. Do you remember that?"

"I saw some horribly mutilated man. Poor man… And I was upset. I was led to believe it was my fiancée. But I've had time to calm down, and think it over. It wasn't him. He's still coming back to me."

"He's dead. I promise you."

"No, I know he's alive. He would never die and leave me alone. Someone must be keeping him from me."

Right. This about the guy who had been engaged to at least three women at one time, and bilking money from the entire lot. Surely he would be the one to overcome death all for the love of one woman.

At some point in the past two years or so, Siri Albert had gone bat shit crazy.

"Siri, if you truly believe that, then you let me out of this chair and we'll go investigate together. I believe he is dead. But maybe you can convince me. Maybe we'll find something you can use to track him down." If truth wouldn't work with the crazy girl, maybe giving her some part of what she wanted would be the best way to handle this.

"I'm sorry Agent Gibbs. But I just can't believe that. You know something. You know where he is."

She rose daintily, wringing her hands together and pacing in front of him. Her face took on a mournful cast, and she pleaded, "Please talk to me. Give me something that can be checked. I can't let you up, let you go, until I know for sure you've been honest with me."

Gibbs kept silent.

There was a brief flash of something in her eyes, and then her face returned to the mournful look. "Oh, please tell me. It would make it so much easier for both of us."

She walked over to the coffeemaker, lifting out a fresh, full pot, and came towards him.

Coffee through a straw, perhaps? It sounded degrading.

It was worth a try.

But she didn't have a cup or straw in her hand. She didn't have anything else at all.

Gibbs had a very bad feeling about this.

Siri put the coffeepot down on the small wooden table next to him.

He let out a small internal sigh of relief.

She walked back to the fridge, taking a ruffled peach apron off of a hook, and tied it around her waist. Then she walked back to Gibbs, picked up the coffeepot, and started pouring.

First on his right wrist. Slowly up to his elbow, then back down to his wrist again.

Damn. This girl was certainly not trained in torture techniques. There were any number of implements in this kitchen that could have been used much more effectively. And a hot beverage was hardly the worst thing this Marine had encountered in his life.

Her big (crazy) eyes stared into his as she moved the angle of the pot over, so the coffee splashed onto his right knee, and onto his foot and ankle.

His muscles tensed as the steamy stuff moved up his thigh, approaching territory he'd rather not burn, thank you.

The pot ran out.

Unfortunately, the coffee had soaked through his clothes, and the burn continued in intensity since it was just sitting there without being washed away.

Out of ammo, she leaned over and pressed the bottom of the hot coffeepot into the back of his hand.

Yeah, she had no idea what she was doing.

But that didn't make it any less painful.

* * *

DiNozzo checked the clock. Vance's five minutes started now, and once they were up he was outta here. He was antsy with the knowledge that the team must have something more by now, even if he himself wasn't there to help the investigation at the moment.

Five minutes.

Not a second more. And he begrudged even these. He was on a case. This was throwing off the focus he was delicately hanging on to.

He needed to find Gibbs, dammit.

If Vance knew what was what, he could get just about any piece of information he wanted out of Tony just now. Five minutes of honesty in return for being left alone to pursue this case as it needed to be pursued. With single-minded, wholehearted wild intensity.

Wherever Gibbs was, he wasn't in good shape. He wouldn't just sit around, waiting for his team to rescue him. He'd be pissing off his captors, trying to escape, provoking everyone and every situation.

Five minutes…

* * *

Vance was annoyed. Displeased. Put out.

And, if he was honest with himself, indecisive about what to do. And possibly intrigued. You couldn't get straight answers out of anyone in this damned place, especially Gibbs' little posse. Five minutes of straight answers might be a nice change of pace.

But damn DiNozzo for making his own director feel like he wasn't the one in charge. Maybe the senior field agent wasn't the right choice to lead this investigation. Maybe it should be given over to a cooler mind. Maybe he should take it over himself.

Except Leon wasn't stupid. If he benched DiNozzo, he'd lose David and McGee, as well. And Scuito and Mallard wouldn't be far behind.

Again, he cursed Gibbs for managing to tie the best computer hacker, the best forensic scientist and the only medical examiner NCIS had so tightly to himself.

He eyed DiNozzo. Given the pattern, David and DiNozzo must excel in some arena as well. Ziva, perhaps in sheer physicality – in tracking, fighting, planning an attack. DiNozzo, though, did not have such skills.

"Why you?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Damn. Now that he had engaged, he had best play this out as best he could.

"Why me what?"

Vance wanted to shove the leg DiNozzo had swung over the arm of the chair back onto the floor. It felt rather emasculating to want to slap someone so much. Shouldn't he want to punch him? But slapping him just sounded so very satisfying.

"Why are you on Gibbs' team? Why do you keep coming back to each other, over and over again? Why was it you that he wanted back so urgently when I split up the team; not David or McGee, but you? What's so special about you that he can't do without?"

"I'm sure he can do without me. He's just used to me." DiNozzo shrugged. "Easier to keep me around than train in a newbie."

Vance was startled. Was the jerk being modest now? He sounded sincere. He tried a slightly different tact. "How did Gibbs pick each of you?"

DiNozzo seemed somewhat startled at the line of questioning himself, and willingly replied, "Abby he saw at her interview here; I wasn't here yet but I'm told he talked with her for about an hour and then told Morrow we had to have her. Morrow usually listened to Gibbs, when Gibbs bothered to make a recommendation. Me, we worked a case together and he had just lost a couple agents. I was ready to move on, he needed someone, seemed like a good fit. McGee we ran into a few times on other cases, and it was clear we needed another tech expert. Abby couldn't keep doing all the forensics and all the e-geek stuff, so we tried him out a few times and added him on."

Vance got the sense that he wasn't getting all there was to get. "What are you not telling me?"

DiNozzo shrugged again. "Maybe adding McGee was a little more my idea than Gibbs to start with. But he was a good kid, and Gibbs came around pretty fast once Tim actually worked on a few cases with us."

Vance didn't want to hear this. He didn't like it. "And Ziva?"

"Gibbs never actually picked Ziva. Jenny assigned her to our team shortly after – shortly after we lost an agent."

It did not escape his notice that this field agent referred to his previous director by her first name. "That's strange. Ziva's file doesn't indicate she was assigned by Sheppard."

"I don't know everything that happened then. We all had other things on our mind when we first met. But Gibbs took to her rather quickly, whatever the reason. Almost everyone did."

Vance raised an eyebrow, inquiring.

"Abby resisted Ziva's charms for a while. It was interesting to watch, at times. Sometimes it was just…tense. Ziva wore her down eventually. But if those two had really formed a rivalry, I'm not too sure who would have been the victor in the end." A brief flash of a real grin accompanied this last, as though this was not the first time DiNozzo had enjoyably imagined that scenario.

This wasn't getting him any closer to what he wanted.

"Dr. Mallard has said multiple times within my hearing that you and Gibbs are peas in the same pod. I can't say I see the similarities. Do you?"

DiNozzo swung his other leg over the arm of the chair and leaned back, as though emulating being on a shrink's couch.

"Yes and no. Gibbs and I are very different people, I agree. We have very different backgrounds. At heart, he's a marine and I'm a cop. Certainly our daily demeanors are polar opposites. But my guess is that Ducky means we're both stubborn asses who have a bad habit of disregarding certain rules and procedures if they infringe on a case."

Vance grunted.

"I don't just mean those kinds of rules. I mean things like ignoring medical advice, or refusing medical care. Ducky sees that kind of stuff from both of us and he's not a big fan." He continued more slowly, "I suppose we're also tenacious when it comes to work. We may have a lot of outward dissimilarities, but our work is the most important thing in either of our lives. So…" He gestured outwards with his hands and furrowed his brow, apparently unable to articulate the rest of his point.

This still wasn't getting him anything useful. And his damned five minutes were almost up.

"Forget why Gibbs keeps you here. Why do you stay? There must have been opportunities for advancement. If you don't feel like you can speak on Gibbs' behalf, at least speak on your own."

"Director Sheppard offered me some other positions when Gibbs came back from his Mexican hiatus. Didn't feel like leaving the team."

Vance stared. Clearly that answer was half-assed.

DiNozzo gave in. "She offered me some really good positions, actually. Lead in Rota was the only one that made my head turn."

Rota? This guy didn't jump at the chance to lead his own team? In Rota?

"Look, it's not an easy thing to explain, this team. Half the people around here think I'm Gibbs' dog. And that's okay. I don't care that they think that. But it's not exactly accurate. I don't always obey. Probably half the rest of them think our team stays together because we've formed our own little dysfunctional family. And they're right in a way. This team feels like a home. But people do leave home. Family's not the only reason we stick."

DiNozzo looked uncomfortable. Finally.

"I think the rest of the office thinks that I in particular stay from some sort of masochism – that I like being tortured by Gibbs. But that's stupid. I would never stay somewhere I felt unwanted, or abused, or…" He trailed off, and rubbed a hand across his bottom lip several times. Vance had seen that habit in the man before, though he was still unclear exactly what it indicated.

He continued in a quieter voice. "I am capable of leading my own team. I am capable of working as a solo agent." He paused again. "Have you ever completely trusted someone, director? And I do mean _completely_ trusted someone? I didn't even know that existed before I met Gibbs."

DiNozzo stood.

"Five minutes is up. And Gibbs is trusting me to find him."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Director, if you have to ask me that question then you've never really trusted anyone either."

And with that, a sober Anthony DiNozzo strode out of the director's office and returned to his team.

* * *

_You are all very undemanding readers; besides demands to update more quickly, I had very few requests! I tried a bit of hurt Gibbs which made me wince to write, but there are so many things in the kitchen a crazy kid could turn to...who knows what'll pop up next. And what the hell is Vance's problem, anyway?_

_I've decided to follow the majority rule based upon your comments, and focus on updating quickly, whether or not I am pleased with the chapter. You guys seem to like 'em okay, and that is the most important part._


	11. Chapter 11

_You guys know what to do. Read. Review, if motivated. Reassure my sad little self that it is not boring (assuming true). Hopefully - enjoy!_

* * *

The vending guy's missing assistant was named Larry Adams. He was a masters student at Georgetown in applied mathematics. Clean record. His mother was extremely worried. As were his grandmother, his four older sisters, various female aunts and cousins, and his research partner, Lucy.

After speaking with a dozen Adams women, Tony could envision Larry running away from home. But kidnapping Gibbs… That didn't feel right. No motive.

It could be a coincidence. The kid could have disappeared due to some circumstances unrelated to Gibbs' disappearance. DiNozzo believed in the occasional coincidence.

Well, he used to.

Tony's cell rang. Afraid to lose more time to acquaintances fishing for dirt on Gibbs' disappearance, well-wishers offering help (but who could not at this time _be_ of any help) or any additional Adams' women, Tony had started screening his calls. His heartbeat hitched when he saw Prifey's name on the readout. "Tell me you've got something."

"Uniforms canvassing the area around the upturned car found a lady who heard the crash and peered out her curtains. Couldn't see much, said there were maybe three or four dark haired young guys who came back and picked up the unconscious driver."

"No chance of an ID?"

"No, she didn't see faces."

Damn.

"But she did hear voices."

"What've you got?" Ziva and McGee picked up on the excitement in his voice, and both stopped what they were doing, watching Tony's face and hoping for good news.

"Well, don't know what they were talking about, 'cause they weren't speaking English."

"Arabic? Persian? Russian?"

"French, seems like. Never did like fancy French food."

"French?" Tony readjusted his line of thinking. "Okay, French. So she saw a handful of young, dark-haired guys speaking in French."

"Yep. That's all we got."

"That's more than I hoped for. Thank you, Andy."

"Good luck, kid. Call me if you need me."

"Actually, since you offered…" Tony plastered on a winning smile, never mind that Prifey wasn't here in person. Surely his charm translated over cellular waves.

He took the rough rumble of laughter on the other side as assent to continue. "I need a missing persons file on Larry Adams. Can you send it over?"

"Will do." Prifey hung up.

Tony speculated for a moment on just how few people he knew who were incapable of saying hello or goodbye.

"French does not mean France, necessarily," Ziva offered. "We could still be looking at Canadians…or Africans."

"McGee, call Abby. Tell her to expand the search on the prints she found from both the cars to include Interpol matches."

As McGee moved to follow Tony's instructions, Ziva and Tony caught each other's gaze, both thinking the same thing.

How did a pack of French thugs driving stolen cars to northern Maryland, Larry the missing vending guy, purple satin envelopes and Gibbs tie together?

* * *

Gibbs was slowly coming to realize that some of the rocking in his head was not in time to the rocking of the chair. If he screwed his face up he could feel dried blood crackle off the right side of his face, and see the dark red flakes, like dandruff from hell, scatter across his black shirt.

Head wound.

It must have been from the car wreck. Though…he couldn't quite recall the wreck itself. He recalled looking back, thinking someone might be tailing him. Then realizing they really were tailing him, and that there were two cars, not one. He tried to evade, but another one came at him from head on and –

Well, things get fuzzy after a head wound. Hopefully that was the only repercussion. He felt more or less clear-headed.

Unless pity was the result of head trauma. Because he sure as hell pitied this poor creature in front of him.

She looked at the empty coffee pot and back down towards the floor. Back at the coffee pot and then to his arm. Her mouth turned down into a pretty frown. She used the side of the empty pot to lightly tap the side of his leg.

Seeing no reason not to comply, he moved his leg as far to the side as he could, given the restraints.

"Oh that is just so sad," she said softly, plunking the coffee pot down on the floor. "This beautiful tapestry seat – ruined. I just ruined it." Her right hand came up to her mouth, and her left traced just above the coffee stains on the rocking chair's seat.

"Family heirloom?" Gibbs asked.

"No. Not mine at least. But oh, it does look old. It must be someone's piece of history." Her hand made contact with the fabric, which she stroked slowly.

Interesting. Not her house, then. Not her stuff.

He continued to ignore the pounding of his head and the burning sensation eating through several patches of skin.

One big fat tear plopped down from Siri's face and landed on Gibbs' raw skin.

_Damn._ Hopefully she wouldn't think to pour salt water over him on her next go-round.

She stood up daintily and dried her face on the apron, then scooped up the coffee pot and filled it with water.

Oh, good. Free refills.

* * *

Palmer was on a refill round.

He may be an ME, but he liked to think of himself as having regular rounds during the day, checking in with his people. When he arrived in the morning, he took the same route past the security desk, to the coffee cart, a detour through human resources, then down to the morgue. When he took breaks throughout the day, he ducked into Abby's lab or the work spaces of the other forensic and lab techs down in the basement. When he left for the day, he walked by the mail room then out through the evidence garage.

But that was a normal day.

He would never say any of this out loud. It would sound totally nerdy. But internally, he thought of days like today as emergency rounds.

He didn't really have any ME-related work to do. There were no bodies. So he got refills. He made Dr. Mallard tea, got Abby Caf-Pows, and got the field team coffee.

A few hours ago he ordered bagel sandwiches. He left a sack full in the squad room with bottles of juice, brought the Doctor a turkey and swiss, cut in quarters and nicely presented on a china plate he kept for just such an occasion (Ducky ate better when food was presented well) and took two sandwiches to Abby in the evidence garage, staying and pestering her until she ate one.

He swept through the squad room now, as he did every two hours, tossing wrappers and empty cups, leaving refills, bottles of water and energy bars in clear sight. Rarely did anyone acknowledge his presence. This time through no one did.

Jimmy didn't mind.

McGee's face was nearly plastered to his computer screen; he was entirely geeked out, and wouldn't have noticed if Gibbs himself walked off the elevator. Ziva was matching something from paper to the computer screen, holding papers up near the monitor and using her finger to trace some factoid back and forth. He could tell she had a raging headache by the way she kept scrunching her eyes shut, and he left two ibuprofen on the corner of her desk. Tony, momentarily between phone calls, had dropped his head into his hands and sat motionless.

Palmer knew he was just thinking, letting his mind sort through data.

He moved on silently, arms full of trash.

As he approached the garbage can near the elevator, the doors dinged and he found himself looking hopefully up, as though Gibbs might appear.

Vance came through the doors. He looked rested and vaguely irritated, as usual. He must have gone home to get some sleep at some point last night.

Jimmy smiled and nodded at the director, dumped his trash in the bin, and moved towards the back elevator, intending to go down and spend a few minutes with Abby. Unlike the others, Abby needed regular conversation to keep herself alert and awake. And in a pinch, he would suffice.

"Palmer."

The director had followed him into the hallway that led to the smaller elevator.

Gulp.

"Director? How may I assist you today?"

Argh, stupid stupid stupid. Who says stuff like that?

"You are a well-paid member of our scientific staff. You do not have to gopher for this team."

"Oh, it's fine director. They aren't demanding that I do anything. I'm just trying to help out."

"You've got more years of education behind you than even McGee. Surely there must be something more _academic_ you could be doing."

Jimmy shrugged nervously, and felt that nasty old uncomfortable doofy grin plaster itself across his face.

Vance's eyes narrowed. "I'll tell DiNozzo to knock it off. They can get their own damn snacks." He started to turn.

"No!" How could he explain? What he did was important too, even if not everyone understood.

"Are you afraid you'll get kicked out of the cool kids' club if you don't fetch and carry for them? Seems to me they barely tolerate you anyway."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jimmy snapped back.

Oops.

Crap.

"Um, I mean just because they seem a little harsh at times doesn't mean…what it seems to mean…"

Vance frowned down at him and gave him The Raised Eyebrow of Inquiry. So named by Tony, of course.

Jimmy tried again, attempting not to stutter. "I watched the team my first year here. I did my job as Dr. Mallard's assistant. But I didn't really get a chance to help them – not beyond the scope of my duties. And at the time, I wasn't even all that good at my own job yet. And I was terrified of Gibbs, really really terrified. So I stuck by Dr. Mallard's side, like a kid.

"When Gibbs left for Mexico, Agent DiNozzo drew me into the group a little more, and I was really happy to be included, even if I didn't usually have much to offer. Tony told me not to worry, that family was family and eventually I'd find my own way to feel helpful. I thought maybe when I finished medical school that I would go on to get a psychology degree and help with profiling when there were no bodies, like Dr. Mallard, or that I'd help stitch the team up when they were injured. But, I noticed something…

"The thing is – they don't pay attention to themselves very well. They pay attention to the case, to the suspects, sometimes to each other. But there were cases where none of them would sleep for days. They wouldn't eat, or hydrate. I don't even think they took bathroom breaks. They're hardy people. Determined federal investigators. They survived those cases, and caught their bad guys. But afterwards…sometimes they just collapsed. Slept for a day straight. Got sick. Certainly they were nasty-tempered, especially to each other."

Vance was just staring at him. Probably in shock that anyone had the audacity to spew out this much verbal diarrhea. But he couldn't shut his mouth up!

"So Tony asked me once to be in charge of supplies, and I just sorta saw where I could help. I can make sure they eat. I can save them time by bringing them their caffeine, so they don't have to go get it. I can make sure Dr. Mallard is as comfortable as he can be, and I can monitor Abby and talk to her, because she's all by herself downstairs during the worst of cases, and she needs human interaction more than any of the others. If anyone seems too close to breaking, I tell Tony, and he'll step in and take care of it."

Vance looked disgusted.

"Don't you understand? Tony – Agent DiNozzo – trusts me to take care of his people while they're working. He trusts me."

Palmer could have gone on. He could have mentioned that Tony bounced ideas off of him, used him to work out plans before he brought them to the team sometimes. That Tony said part of his success in handling the team when Gibbs was in Mexico was directly due to the fact that he knew Palmer would intervene if any of them pushed too hard, for too long, so didn't have to worry about it. And it was a huge worry off of his mind, freeing it up for more useful pursuits.

That _he_, Jimmy Palmer, would intervene with the gun-wielding action stars that were this field team.

And know what? He would. He had. And he would again if warranted.

Jimmy Palmer jerked his chin up proudly and actually looked the director of NCIS in the eye before turning around and marching to the elevator to continue his rounds.

Thankfully the elevator doors closed before his knees started knocking together.

* * *

Siri had half-heartedly poured some more coffee over Gibbs. She finally realized that she wasn't getting the reaction she expected.

She took the pot back to the sink, where he expected to see her dump it out. Instead, she peered at it, pushed up her left sleeve, and poured some over her own arm as if testing the temperature of baby formula.

She screamed and dropped the pot, turned on the cold water and thrust her arm under the flow.

Screamed again when the force of the cold water hit it, and then started sobbing.

Through her tears she looked over at Gibbs as though he had hurt her. As though he had forced her to hurt herself.

Usually he funneled the crazy female suspects to Tony these days.

Siri shut the water off and slid open the drawer next to the sink. "I just want to know where my fiancée is!" She wailed.

Still crying, she approached him with a cheese grater in her hand.

A really big, shiny, solid-looking cheese grater.


	12. Chapter 12

_It was either post this chapter as is (without the Gibbs POV section I intended to add) or wait a couple of days, so..._

_I begin to realize through writing this how much of the story the NCIS actors manage to convey through facial expressions. It's kinda impressive. And hard to duplicate without, you know, the visual representation of the actors._

_I vote it should be illegal to have to go to work at 6am! Must sleep now._

_Hope you all enjoy, and that I did not miss massive amounts of typos. This chapter lacks a bit in case advancement, but we will come back to that in the next one, promise._

* * *

Tony and Ziva entered Gibbs' house in discomfort. Both were used to coming and going as they pleased here, but usually they headed straight to the basement. In Tony's case, sometimes he crashed on the most comfortable surface he could find, or used the shower or raided the fridge.

But neither of them had ever dared to invade Gibbs' personal space to the extent of poking through his stuff.

They stood in the living room, gloves on, and avoided looking at each other. They did not have a conversation regarding how unlikely it was that they would find useful evidence at Gibbs' home. Neither one of them thought this search would supply new clues for the case. But they couldn't avoid it. It was procedure to search the home of a kidnap victim for clues. Procedure, and solid police work.

Tony shuddered. "Kidnap victim" and Gibbs were two concepts that he could not force together in his mind. Nor did he want to expend the energy to try to merge the two. Gibbs was no damn victim. He would be just fine.

That felt good. He tried it out loud, forcefully. "He will be just fine. Ziva. Stop thinking negative thoughts."

She looked him up and down and quite obviously dismissed him, moving towards the stairs. "Let's start in the basement."

Good plan. Maybe they'd get lucky and find something down there before they started rooting around anywhere more personal. Out loud, he said, "Why? Chicken?"

"I am not afraid to do my job. However. You bring to mind an excellent point." She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. "There is food in here that will spoil if it is not eaten soon."

Tony moved in right behind her and peered in himself. "Boss hates waste."

So they started their search with chicken and avocado sandwiches. And they took them to the basement.

Not because they were cowards.

Because it just made logical sense to work their way from the bottom of the house to the top.

They found mostly the expected in Gibbs' work space. Tools, sawhorses. Booze. There were half-finished carvings scattered across one of the workbenches. Some were toys, which Tony knew Gibbs had been making to donate to various children's hospital wards.

Though he only knew that because Jackson had told him.

Some other bits looked like the beginnings of creatures, or were just pleasing sworls that teased the mind with vaguely defined forms.

Tony smiled as he ran his fingers over the smooth surfaces. Leroy Jethro Gibbs, the artist. Man, he would hate that!

When they had completed their search and Ziva started up the stairs, Tony pocketed a small piece that, with a little mental manipulation, looked a bit like his old Mustang. Hand in his pocket, he rubbed his thumb back and forth along one side of the more-or-less rectangular object as he bounded up the stairs to meet Ziva in the living room.

They had investigated the kitchen thoroughly already.

The living area also held little of surprise. Gibbs didn't own a lot of _things_. He wasn't the type. Tony suspected that he never had been, and could understand the impulse. As someone who had been used to moving every year or two years for most of his life, he agreed that toning down on the general amount of accumulated stuff was both possible and useful. But this, he would call more bare or sparse rather than simply well weeded out.

They flipped through the pages of books looking for work notes that may have been used for bookmarks. Lifted the couch cushions and the couch itself, finding precisely nothing. It was spotless.

Curiously, there was a women's-style pink bicycle leaned up against one of the bookshelves.

Hmm.

Earlier that morning, Tony had called around to all of Gibbs' recent female friends that he could think of. This included all three ex-wives, who thankfully all had solid alibis. Dragging one of them into interrogation would have been a huge waste of time, and not an easy task either, since Gibbs seemed to favor complicated women.

Tony was not aware of any current romantic attachments Gibbs had. But really, how often was he aware of such things?

They swept quickly through the small half bath and the various closets that compromised the rest of the first floor space.

Then they moved up the stairs to the second floor, which held three bedrooms and a full bath.

They started with the guest room, which due to its large size and location was clearly supposed to be the master bedroom.

You could hardly blame the guy for not wanting to sleep in the same room he had shared with Shannon.

The space was almost bare; just a bed and dresser and one rug. Tony searched the bed and the closet, while Ziva opened the drawers of the dresser.

She turned around, towards him, a lighthearted question on her face and a small stack of men's clothing in her hands. A ratty old Ohio State sweatshirt lie at the top of the pile.

Tony grinned a little sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head. "What?"

Ziva gave him a real smile in return. "Nothing at all." She gently placed the clothes back into the drawer and closed it.

They were already about finished with this room, and ready to move on to Gibbs' bedroom.

As the crossed the hallway into the next room, Ziva announced abruptly, "I have something to tell you."

Tony did not care for her tone of voice.

They entered Gibbs room. Ziva moved to the closet, and Tony to the nightstand next to the bed.

"It is my belief that director Vance is either attempting to undermine your authority, or else to gather enough ammunition to validate taking this case away from you."

"I'm not exactly surprised."

"He stopped me this morning to ask me what I thought of your leadership skills, and if McGee and I were being utilized to the fullest."

Tony kept silent. His boss' nightstand was full of interesting things, mostly letters. Though he was itching to read them, most were from identifiable sources, such as Franks' daughter-in-law, Jackson Gibbs, and Hollis Mann.

Reaaalllly.

"Do you not want to know what I told him?"

"I will not ask you to tell me what you told him. That conversation was between you and the director."

"I informed him that I could see no other way for McGee and I to be 'utilized' to our fullest extent without you or Gibbs leading the team, as there is no one else who understands the team and its members' skills well enough to do so."

He didn't expect any less from her; they may have their differences at times, and certainly they squabbled, but those kinds of displays were between the two of them, sometimes in front of the team. But they were good at presenting a united front to outsiders.

"Also, I informed him _your_ skills were not being 'utilized' to the fullest. The implication was that his interruptions and lack of support in a team leader could cause only delays, certainly not aid, to this case."

Tony looked up now.

"Well, in truth, I did not so much imply that as say it straight out." She fussed with some hangers in the closet. "I may have also implied that you have other skills – I mean other than investigative skills – that are underused."

She closed the closet door and moved on to the dresser.

Did she just _saunter_ over to the dresser?

"What exactly is it possible you may have implied, Ziva?"

"Do not let this go to your head. But I may have said something along the lines of your ability to dress yourself well. And I may have indicated I have seen you dress others well, such as when you pick out wardrobe for McGee or Gibbs on undercover missions. And I may have let my eyes move up and down the director's subpar suit with non-matching tie. And I may have walked away."

Oh, this so was not helpful to his already strained relationship with Vance.

But oh, he wished he had been there to see the man's face!

"So you do admire my fashion sense, hmm?"

"Tony, now is hardly the time." She scolded, and moved further from him.

"Fine…but we will return to this when we have Gibbs back." He threw out a cocky smile, which he even partly meant. "We will get him back, you know."

Ziva turned enough to look at him over her shoulder and said with confidence, "I know you will, Tony."

Well.

That put a little spring back in a man's step.

Energized despite the lack of sleep, he forced himself to put the letters back and moved to the small desk in the room's corner.

He found mostly bills, and some non-classified cold cases from work. In one drawer were legal papers, which informed him that Gibbs' mortgage was already paid off, and that the man had more money than Tony would have expected.

Though, really, when did he ever spend money? Maybe he should have expected it.

He also found that Gibbs owned a parcel of land near his hometown.

Interesting, but not relevant to the case.

Below these, he found a copy of Gibbs' will.

Oh, he did not want to read it. But if he didn't, and it later turned out that Gibbs had left his money to a pack of French thugs with a penchant for making academic vending assistants disappear, wouldn't he feel stupid…

So he had to open it.

Right?

He tapped the file against the desk. Ziva did not comment, which told him she had already found things she was not so sure she wanted to know about, and was therefore not going to inquire about any additional items he found.

He opened the file.

It wasn't overly large, and seemed more or less simple. Tony skimmed for what he would normally look for in a kidnapping case.

Most of the money went to his godchild down in Mexico, the rest to Abby. The parcel of land went half to his dad, which is likely where he got it from in the first place, and half to Ziva. Nice touch boss – give a kid who doesn't have a home a place she can really call her own. There were a few specific bequests here and there, and each member of the team and a handful of others were listed as people who would be receiving letters written by Gibbs, currently held by the law firm that drafted the will.

Wow, he did not want to ever read that letter.

And wow…Gibbs had lawyers.

He skimmed through the rest, noting that any cars or boats owned at the time of death would be donated to a charity supporting families of deceased marines.

And that the house and all contents would go to Anthony DiNozzo, Jr.

"All" was underlined.

Tony did not like this case. It was presenting him with crazy amounts of information that would normally have made him gleeful.

But today he just felt like he had swallowed a frog. Two frogs. One stuck in his throat, and one hopping around, trying to get out of his stomach.

He closed the file and put it carefully back exactly where he had found it. Then he sat on the bed.

They had to find Gibbs. He couldn't afford to take a break.

But sometimes a guy just needed a minute to process.

Ziva sat next to him, brushing shoulders, just as she used to.

They both sat silently for a handful of minutes, until the world righted itself around them.

Then they both stood, and together they searched the third room, the room that no one went into, the door that was always closed.

There was nothing pertinent in Kelly's room to the case. Just a strange amalgamation of happiness and sadness. They did not say a single word until they were finished, and the door was closed behind them with reverence.

Tony opened his mouth and started to say many things. What finally came out was a growl, "I am still hungry."

They went back to the kitchen and finished off the chicken before leaving.

Despite the fact that neither of them were hungry.


	13. Chapter 13

Gibbs was having trouble keeping track of time. Sunlight did filter through the kitchen's yellow and white checked curtains, but he was unsure if he had been here hours, or days. He had lost consciousness several times. He concluded he must have a concussion, but disregarded the knowledge. DiNozzo worked through concussions. So could he.

Siri was momentarily out of the room, which was a big fat relief.

Gibbs could hear other people in the house talking quietly, could hear them moving around on the old creaky wooden floors. Twice he had caught a glimpse of a man with dark hair and a dark complexion peering through the doorway, but the glimpses were both frustratingly brief. It would be easier if one of them came in and started interrogating him about a case, or about his colleagues, or about classified freaking secrets.

These situations were so much easier to handle when he was resisting interrogation. Resisting was fighting back. It lent strength, and helped him maintain his anger, which itself always helped to prop him up in a dire situation.

But there was nothing to resist here, nothing to fight but the pain and nagging sense that he wasn't getting out of this one easily. Siri continued to ask only for nonexistent information about her very dead not-really fiancée. He tried repeating the truth, he'd tried keeping silent. He considered lying, telling her he knew where the man was, but that seemed wrong, and unlikely to work, anyway. She wasn't an evil supergenius.

He turned his thoughts to his abused body. So far his injuries were not significant, at least not in his opinion. His head throbbed, but no big deal there. The burns hurt, but they would heal. The tip of his nose, his left jawline and his knee screamed where the cheese grater had swiped him. He preferred to think the fuzzy objects he was trying to ignore at the bottom of his range of vision were spots from the concussion, not bits of his own flayed facial flesh.

Gibbs yanked against his bonds.

He tried to think what clues the kidnappers might have left for the team to track. If Tony found out about those damned letters Siri had been writing him, and that Gibbs had thrown them all out without mentioning them to anyone, he was going to be forced to endure a lecture from his senior field agent that he might actually have to sit through.

Well, that he would deserve anyway.

But she hadn't sent him any emails or called him; nothing for McGee to trace. He didn't think any of them had been in the office or in his house, so unless the bastards were stupid enough to leave prints on his car – assuming his car had even been left behind – there wouldn't be prints for Abby to trace. No bodies for Ducky.

But DiNozzo would find something. If not on Siri, then on whoever was masterminding this dumbass operation.

DiNozzo would find something – if Vance let DiNozzo run the investigation.

Well, shit.

He strained against the ropes again.

Even if Tony wasn't leading the case, he'd never let this go. But how much of Gibbs would be left if he had to wait until Tony found him without NCIS resources?

And how much of DiNozzo would survive if he found his boss too late?

The door slid open, and Siri returned. She peered at him through large, red-rimmed eyes, sniffling and patting her face with a green linen napkin. She gave the appearance of a sweet, grieving girl.

Gibbs was not going to get anywhere dealing with this broken bit of women who may well have been manipulated into her current state of crazy. He needed to get to the orchestrator.

Well, straight to the point, then.

"Siri, this wasn't your idea, was it?" She looked away, moving further into the room. "Nah, this isn't your kind of plan. You're a smart girl. Even if you didn't believe us, there are other ways to go about finding the truth." He kept his voice gentle. "Siri, did someone convince you this was the only way to find James?"

"I tried to talk with you, but you didn't respond to my letters," she said softly.

Gibbs nodded slowly. "Yep. And that's on me. My fault. I shouldn't have ignored them. But that's a pretty big leap – from letter writing to kidnapping and interrogation. Seems to me a nice girl like you, she wouldn't know the kinds of guys who would kidnap a federal agent."

She tapped a nail on the countertop repeatedly. "I can't talk about her."

"Siri, tell me who she is. Maybe this really is all a misunderstanding. Can I talk to her? Maybe we can clear this right up."

The girl's face slackened. "She's watching. That's all you need to know. She told me everything. What you did to James. What you did to her. _Everything_." With the last, snarled word, the porcelain face twisted into an ugliness only something that was once lovely can achieve.

* * *

Abby's arms shot straight up in the air as one print matched in the system.

Tony walked into her lab, McGee behind him.

Right on time, DiNozzo.

"I got a match off of one of the prints. Nothing on the others. But this bad guy" – she stopped to pull up the Interpol file – "is one snaky looking dude with a long history of violent assaults and illegal possession of firearms. Most of his activity seems centered in Paris, but he's definitely not partial; we've got hits from Amsterdam, London, Toronto, Rio…the list goes on."

"Antoine Thomeguex. French national," McGee muttered, reading the file.

"Yep. Last time his passport was swiped he was flying into Québec. No record of him entering the US, so he must've slipped through the Canadian border somewhere."

Tony started to ask a question, but she anticipated. "Can't tell for certain if he flew in with other passengers or not. But it was only two weeks ago, there's a chance you could get some useful airport footage."

"McGee –"

"BOLO, on it, Tony. And getting the airport security tapes and flight manifest." McGee grabbed one of Abby's PCs and went to work.

Tony turned back to Abby. "Or there's a chance someone in Canadian customs might remember a group of young French guys flying in two weeks ago, if they did all come in together."

"Maybe, but getting information out of a foreign customs bureau will take, like, forever. Gibbs doesn't have forever to wait."

"Leave it to me, Abs," Tony said. She worried that his face was too serious. He wasn't even trying to crack jokes any more. But before she could think of anything lighthearted to say, he stepped back into the hall and disappeared.

She considered going after him, but it wouldn't be the most productive move for either of them. And Tony was probably fine, really. He looked more intense than upset.

She turned back to her monitor and thus did not see Vance as he strode into her lab.

When her music shut off, she whirled around, half hoping Gibbs had magically appeared, and half expecting to see Tony trying to get her attention.

Reality was certainly more unpleasant than fantasy.

McGee perked up. Traitor. "Director, Abby got a match on one of the prints! Putting a BOLO out on the guy right now." He continued his furious typing.

Vance turned back to Abby.

Her finger was in the air, waving back and forth rather close to his face.

"No. We are not doing this."

Vance opened his mouth, but had no chance to get anything out.

"I will not stand here while you question what I am doing, question Tony's methods and erroneously discount his abilities. I do not have the emotional stamina to listen to you and remain non-violent, and now is not a good time for me to lose my job for punching the director. I have. Too much. To DO!."

She swept by him, heading back to the evidence garage. On her way out, she shot Tim a dirty look that promised much pain in his future if he did not toe the line. Her line. McGee was a great agent, but he was far too wrapped up in finally being the director's favorite.

* * *

It sure looked like that woman had fishnet stockings on her arms and animal skull stickers all over her white lab coat.

Even Vance knew that some battles were just not worth engaging in.

He turned to McGee, who had either missed that short tirade, or was so numbed to them that he had no reaction.

Vance cleared his throat.

McGee looked up, questioning.

"Seems strange to me that more time isn't being devoted to locating Gibbs' known enemies."

"Oh," McGee said dismissively, and looked back down to his monitor. "We finished the initial list hours ago. Fornell's tracking them down."

"DiNozzo turned this investigation over to the _FBI_?"

"No, of course not," McGee answered absent-mindedly. "He would never do that. And in this one instance, I don't think Fornell would try to take it from him." He looked up again. "They actually work pretty well together whenever Gibbs isn't around. All their sniping at each other is just playacting. Not sure why they do it."

"So I'm supposed to believe that Fornell and the FBI are working for DiNozzo?"

"Gibbs is missing," McGee stated, as though that explained everything. Vance didn't look pleased, so he tried again. "Tony's using all the resources available to him."

"I suppose now it's your turn to tell me DiNozzo is the best man for this job and I should keep my nose out of it?"

McGee blinked several times. "Not exactly, sir. Gibbs is the best agent for this job. But Gibbs isn't here. With him gone, yes, Tony is the best choice. I don't think you should keep your nose out of anything you don't want to keep your nose out of. You're the director."

"But?"

He continued slowly, feeling his way around carefully now. "We, I mean this team, has worked under two other directors. Neither of them would have stayed out of this completely either. Director Morrow would have been up in MTAC, where he always was. He would have demanded regular progress reports, and he would have been throwing his weight around, trying to get the other agencies to help us."

"And Shepard?"

"Would have been in everybody's faces, doing whatever she thought would help, grunt work, computer searches, phone calls, whatever."

"Are you telling me I'm not being helpful, Agent McGee?"

To his credit, the young man spoke quickly and surely, though his eyes drifted away. "Sir, you know you are not."

"And what would you have me do?"

"I know what I would have you do," a low, dangerous voice came from the door of the lab. DiNozzo entered, eyes never leaving Vance. "McGee, work at your own desk."

McGee hopped. "Sure, Tony." And was gone.

"I thought we had a deal, director." The agent's voice was slow, quiet and silky smooth as he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

"I don't make deals with my employees."

DiNozzo hummed in the back of his throat. The corners of his mouth turned up, but not in a smile. It was actually a bit creepy. "McGee wasn't being completely honest, you know. He was trying to highlight how your predecessors might have been helpful in this situation. He neglected to mention that Morrow may not have been as supportive and involved as we needed, and that Jenny would have been pissing everybody off trying to be a team player and getting in the way. With the best of intentions, of course."

"And you find my intentions less than honorable?" The nerve of this jackass.

"I find your actions less than helpful. I find your presence disruptive. I care about your intentions not at all at this moment."

This was a different DiNozzo than the one he'd coped with in Toronto. Different from the nervy DiNozzo from the plane, and the sly one who'd try to bargain with him in his own office.

The low voice was both factual sounding and menacing. "How much time have you taken up already? Of mine, of the team's? If we're five minutes too late to save him, you know whose fault it will be?"

"I suppose you think mine?"

"Exactly wrong." He straightened. "It will be entirely my fault. For not making it clear to you from the beginning that I am a capable agent. For not rectifying the situation between us after Jenny's death. For not managing to keep you out of this investigation – for allowing you to waste those five minutes."

DiNozzo had paced forward with each sentence. He now stood directly in front of Vance, and poked a finger straight into his chest.

"If something happens to Gibbs, it's on my shoulders, not yours, not the rest of the team. This is my responsibility. And there is nothing you can do to change that fact."

Wait. What? The man almost sounded as though he'd welcome not being responsible. His tone had changed, now less dangerous and more sad. But still. He couldn't let him get away with speaking like this. "And if I disagree?"

"I wish it mattered." He sighed, and ran his fingers through already disheveled hair. "Go back upstairs. Or better yet, go home. You're not going to change anything here. You're just in the way."

That was not acceptable language to use when speaking to a superior! Especially _this_ superior. "You feel so strongly about that, maybe you had better make me."

"I could. But that wouldn't be useful either. I don't have time or energy to waste on you."

Vance's determination wavered. If DiNozzo truly was on task, then his efforts to prove the man inept and take this investigation away from him would actually be more intrusive than anything else. He wasn't stupid. He just didn't trust this man. And he really, really didn't like him.

"I read that CIA file on you. If I wanted to blackmail you I could. But I don't want to. I don't do that."

Damn that file!

"I'm supposed to believe DiNozzo's don't blackmail?"

"This DiNozzo doesn't." He looked tired. How long had it been since the team had slept? Since he had slept?

Vance bluffed. "I don't care if everyone knows. Go ahead and talk. You're not going to mess with me."

"I am trying to tell you I don't want to mess with you. I am just trying to do my job and get my man back in one piece." DiNozzo folded in on himself and collapsed onto a padded stool. He looked up, an exhausted intensity peering out from under heavy eyelids. "You are not responsible for Director Shepard's death. And whether or not I was, interfering with me now is not going to change the past."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever you want it to. I need some tea." With a speculative look, he heaved himself up and headed towards autopsy.

Tea?

With the uneasy feeling that something major had just shifted, Vance slowly trailed behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

_This chapter brought to you tonight solely because of AlkalineTeegan's positive comments. Otherwise I would have fussed with it for days. Have you joined the cult of AlkalineTeegan yet? Seriously, go read her stuff._

_Teegan, I can't dedicate this to you in return for your very kind dedication to me because you already read it, so there's no surprise. Which means I have to go write something else..._

_Crap._

_

* * *

__Somewhere in Canada…_

Inspector Lucien Tremblay nodded an absentminded greeting to Will, the civilian manning the Immigration reception desk. As always, the fit young man had a Tim Horton's bag on his desk. How the kid could eat a bag full of donuts every day and remain physically unaffected was a damned good question.

Trembley patted his own threatening Molson muscle.

"Have a good lunch, Inspector?" Will greeted him back. He did not wait for a response, but continued with a hushed excitement. "Say, a federal agent from America was trying to reach you. He called the office line when he couldn't reach you on your cell. Bet you left your cell in your office again, didn't you?"

Tremblay grumbled a bit as he continued on to his office. So what if he left his cell in his office from time to time? No one should have to be available all moments of every day. A man deserves some solitude now and again. Besides, cell reception was crap around these parts.

A US federal agent, huh?

Will followed him to his office, picking up two constables along the way who had overheard the brief exchange. They stopped just outside the entrance to his office, waiting to see what he'd do.

US federal agents didn't often call interior Inspectors of the RCMP directly. They had contacts, and embassies, and liaisons for such things. Tremblay wondered what his staff was expecting. If they were hoping for a showdown, they'd be sorely mistaken. He had an idea about who that call could have been from.

Though why would the man need to reach him so urgently?

He eyed his wayward staff and decided to indulge them. He listened to the message on speaker as two red suits and a blue button down listened avidly.

"Tremblay, this is Anthony DiNozzo out at NCIS. I need your help. Please call me." The low, intense voice left several sets of numbers.

Sure didn't sound like the raucous Tony he remembered from just a few days ago. He moved to hit replay and listen again, but the recording wasn't over yet. In a smoother, silkier voice with a tinge of laughter to it, "That is - I need your help on an official matter. This isn't about your wild successes in Toronto, Luke. Though I'm still interested in learning your foreign, magical Canadian ways…and figuring out how you landed that angry Spanish babe. Real masterful work, my friend."

Lies. Total lies. It was almost as if the guy knew he'd be listening to this message on speaker…

He leaned back in his chair, no intention of correcting any misapprehensions the message may have given the lurkers in the doorway. All kidding aside, DiNozzo sounded deadly serious in the first part of his message. But Tremblay wasn't some big-city politician; he didn't have a lot of sway. Could he help with whatever DiNozzo needed?

Fucking-A he could help if DiNozzo thought he could help.

Better find out what he was helping with.

"You heard the man. The American fed needs _our_ help! Go on, set up a conference call with NCIS." All three jumped – actually jumped! – and scurried out of his office.

That was fun.

Tremblay picked up the receiver and listened to the message again. Something was definitely wrong.

* * *

DiNozzo was down in autopsy checking in with Ducky and his quest to find the missing vending assistant when he got the call from MTAC that Tremblay was trying to call in.

Spirits momentarily buoyed, he tossed a, "Mounties to the rescue!" at Vance, and took off up the stairs, three at a time.

He let himself into MTAC, far enough ahead of his director so that the door slammed and the man had to scan himself in.

Sometimes the small pleasures in life don't take you any time at all.

Small smile restored to his lately-serious face, he turned towards the senior communication officer expectantly.

He got a dubious expression in reply.

The small smile disappeared, forgotten. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing sir, it's just – they're Skyping in, sir. Just be a moment."

The tech winced as the picture came on screen. The wobbly, jerky, grainy picture on the big, expensive, high-tech screen.

It _was_ a little hard to make out one blob from another. Tony murmured, "Maybe you can reduce the size of the projection, hmm?"

Easily achieved, but it didn't resolve the jerkiness. Oh well, they'd had worse feed. From war zones.

A fuzzy Tremblay gestured at someone off screen and swore like a proverbial sailor. After a moment, whatever technical problems the Canadians had been experiencing on their end resolved, and the man's countenance brightened as he spotted the NCIS agent on screen. "DiNozzo! Got your message. What do you need?"

No muss, no fuss, no what can you do for me. Just, "what do you need?" Tony's general affection for the RCMP thus reinforced, he explained the situation with their French terrorists and missing agent. He did not enjoy reliving Gibbs' abduction each time he briefed someone.

He should have been here. If he had been here, this might never have happened. He would have been at the scene faster, could have canvassed the area himself. If could have made a difference.

Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Gibbs may have had an ulterior motive in sending him away. Did Gibbs know of some trouble he was trying to hide from his senior field agent?

Not an impossible scenario, but it didn't feel right this time around. Though when they'd last spoken on the phone, Gibbs seemed awfully distracted.

Tony turned his attention back to the screen as he continued his quick briefing. This time he tried to distract himself by making out the forms in the background. There looked to be about six Mounties either standing at attention or staring curiously back at him. That must be Tremblay's entire staff.

The back wall of whatever room the Canadians were in was lined with hockey gear (a wonderful stereotype come true!). A young man in a blue button down was half-hidden, leaning against that gear and watching everything with bright eyes. He reminded Tony of Palmer, somehow.

Now came the hard part. He hated asking for help when it was important. There was always the chance the other party would turn you down. "I need that airport footage, and I need to know if anyone in customs remembers a group of young French guys coming through together. I've got a flight manifest, but no Interpol hits on the other passengers. I'm not getting an answer through the official channels. Can you help speed things up?"

DiNozzo's hand slipped to the bit of wood in his pocket and he paced forward towards the screen, as though leaning in, in person, to ask a more intimate question. Head cocked down and to the side, he forced his eyes to meet the virtual ones before him. "My partner's been missing for 36 hours, Lucien. I need your help with this."

He hated asking for help. He liked this guy. Had no reason to distrust him. But asking for help this baldly was so against his inclination.

Thumb sliding over a smooth side of the almost-carving, he soothed himself. Sometimes you just had to take every and any chance, hoping that throwing yourself out there enough would get you something back in return. Now was not the time for his shit to surface. Now was the time to get Gibbs back.

Tremblay stood, and waited a moment as a minion rushed over to adjust the camera to accommodate his new position. "Well, men? Can we help our friend in need?"

All the Mounties rose to attention, and belted out in unison, "Yes Sir!"

With the Inspector grinning like a burly, toothy lunatic and a mass of red perfect posture behind him, he flicked his eyes to Vance and back to Tony.

Uh oh. Tony had forgotten that Tremblay witnessed one of the dressings-down the director gave him at the conference, and had not taken kindly to it. The last thing he needed now was any more tension between himself and his director.

Some of his thoughts must have passed upon his face, as the Inspector gave a little smile, as if to say, "no worries!" With a small hand gesture down to the side that the other NCIS agents likely did not see, Tremblay rearranged his men into a semi-circle formation around their conference table.

"I'll take a dogsled into the next town to get cell reception if I have to!" Tremblay thundered. "Never let it be said that an Inspector of this division did not help his neighbor in a time of need!" At another low, unobstrusive hand gesture, the formation behind him began a round of "O Canada" in a surprisingly rich baritone ensemble.

He was supposed to keep a straight face at this?

Standing at attention and singing like Disney come to life, the Mounties signed off.

Vance muttered, "I talked to foreign bodies every day and that's one of the strangest conversations I've seen in a while."

The tech muttered back. "Should Canadians seem _that_ alien? Ever?"

DiNozzo, satisfied that his sly superheroes were following that angle, jogged back down to the squadroom and straight into the personal space of his temporary senior field agent.

"McGee. You're up."

"Abby pulled a bullet out of Gibbs' trunk. It's from a Manurhin MR73."

Vance arrived, still silently following and watching, still largely ignored by the MCRT.

Ziva contributed, "More expensive than American-made counterparts. It is not a gun you would see in the Americas very often. French made, often used by French special forces."

Tony took the two points in order of importance. First, "A bullet? So they were definitely shooting at his car, then."

"Ducky reassured us that Gibbs was not in danger from blood loss at the time he was taken from the car." She slowed, spacing her words oddly, a sign of Ziva-distress. "There was some of his blood in the car, and on the pavement. But it was not enough to indicate major bleeding. More likely a cut from the crash."

And if Gibbs was unable to bleed profusely because he was dead, they wouldn't have bothered to take him.

So onto the second point, one they had all been thinking on, but no one had dared mention aloud yet. "There's an awful lot of French connections."

Silence.

They _all_ stared at him.

He stared defiantly back. In doing so, he noticed his team looked awful. McGee's face was pasty white, his eyes bloodshot. Ziva had bags under her eyes that reached her cheekbones, and she'd given up taming her hair some time ago. Downstairs, Ducky had looked not just his age for once, but actually older than his age. Even Palmer had shuffled his feet along the floor as he attempted to keep up a lively conversation.

Abby had seemed energetic when he'd seen her about an hour ago. But she tended to go from full-on to crashing without the slowing in the middle.

He debated the order of how to do this, knowing that whoever went first would feel slighted.

He wrote something down on a post-it and handed it to the now ever-trailing director, who looked back, eyebrow raised.

"McGee, Ziva, pick a number between one and twenty."

They glanced at him suspiciously. McGee's face even scrunched up like a two year old considering having a tantrum.

Can't have the ranks talking back to the commander. "Now!" Tony snapped. Perhaps even roared, in a true (and unintentional) Gibbs-like manner.

They spoke at the same time, Ziva with "Eight," and McGee with "Seven."

Vance held up the post-it. Nine.

"Ziva, sleep, two hours. Abby's futon is set up. Stop at Ducky's on the way and him he'd better damn well be taking a nap on his couch when I check on him in an hour. McGee, you're after Ziva."

McGee stopped considering rebellion since he had a two hour respite from forced rest. Two hours was an eternity at the moment.

Ziva poked him in the chest. "And you, fearless leader?"

"Will go after McGee."

She poked him again. "Yes. You will." And strutted off towards the elevator.

Vance stared at him some more, apparently his favorite new pastime.

"I'm not assigning you a naptime, director." He snapped, a bit more harshly than he intended to. After all, the man was the only one of them who had gone home last night.

A little voice in his head was screaming, "Use all your resources!" while another one competed with, "It can't be the goddamned frog!"

Tony sighed. He couldn't keep this one in, it was too major a sigh. He ran a hand across his lower lip and signed one more time. "Director."

"DiNozzo."

"I would appreciate it if you would investigate the current whereabouts of Jeanne Benoit and any remaining known associates of René Benoit." He clarified, "Including Trent Kort, the slimy bastard. CIA does not equal innocent."

He met and held Vance's stare.

Vance nodded once, turned sharply, and headed back up the stairs.

"Do you think it could really be her?" McGee asked.

"Unlikely. Just covering all the bases."

"Wouldn't put anything past Kort," McGee offered.

Tony squeezed his shoulder. The kid – really, he wasn't a kid anymore – was just trying to cheer him up. He offered back, "Makes Slacks look downright friendly."

* * *

Five hours later, McGee and Ziva had both endured their forced naptimes and were looking slightly better. Ducky had finally submitted, and was snoring on his office couch. Palmer was asleep on one of the autopsy tables.

Ziva poked him.

Tony left unwillingly, shooting glances upstairs. What was taking so long? Was the director even working on the French connections to this case? Maybe it had been a mistake to trust him with that portion of the investigation.

Or with anything.

The elevator let out at the evidence garage. "Abby!" He yelled without getting out. Hand on the 'door open' button, he waited while she clomped over to him.

"Tony, don't be rude!"

"Time for a nap."

Arms crossed, she put on her I-can-kick-the-crap-out-of-you look on and replied with a, "No."

"I'm going too."

She immediately went from scary biker chick to daddy's little angel. "Okay!"

She hopped in the elevator and away they went.

As they entered her lab, Abby ran over to check for new results on one of her monitors, and Tony wearily shambled into her office and lay down. He hoped Abby didn't need to talk. He'd been pretending to have everything under control for over 40 hours now, and whatever mask he'd worn, whatever mental blockades of his own he'd managed – they were all falling now.

Abby walked over, and Tony froze for an instant.

Instead of crawling onto the futon and snuggling into his side as he expected, she fell across him.

Heavily.

"Abs? You okay?"

No response.

He turned her head towards him.

Jesus, she was already asleep. She fell asleep walking over to him?

He was screwed. How was he supposed to get to sleep if she didn't talk him into it?

Tony shifted Abby more onto the futon, so she wasn't half hanging off.

He closed his eyes and commanded himself to sleep, as he had seen Gibbs do.

He waited.

Gibbs was full of crap. He was probably just pretending he could fall asleep that fast in any situation.

But that was during normal cases. Had Gibbs ever professed sleep when one of the team was in trouble? Doubtful. He shouldn't be down here, trying to sleep. It was weak.

He let the two sides of his brain argue back and forth, was it weaker to sleep, or to let himself continue on and miss something because he wasn't thinking clearly enough.

He wouldn't need this debate if he would have done his job, and his duty, and found his boss already.

He didn't like it when Gibbs was in trouble. It wasn't about leadership. Tony was capable of being in charge. That's how things used to always be. But Gibbs had seduced him away from that life of control, and he was now reliant on having the bastard around.

NOT having him around, and NOT knowing what kind of shape he was in and NOT having a plan in motion to get him back was…

He had to control his breathing. He could feel it getting faster and shallower; he was going to hyperventilate if he didn't stop.

Counting sheep didn't work for him. Counting the imaginary ticks of a metronome wasn't going to cut it when he was sitting still, that only worked combined with motion.

He gave in and resorted to the one thing that always helped him calm down.

He tried to count each head-slap Gibbs had ever given him.

DiNozzo was asleep within five minutes.

* * *

_Note to Canadians and other concerned parties: I love Mounties. I like and respect most of the Canadians I've met. Any and all crazed attributes and obvious stereotypes above were solely for the sake of the story. _

_However. If you enjoyed the first portion of this chapter, I encourage you to go to YouTube and search for "Canadian, Please." _


	15. Chapter 15

Unpleasant awakenings were nothing new to Anthony DiNozzo, but he could not immediately place the reason that this particular awakening already seemed unpleasant.

He knew where he was (Abby's office), so there was no danger of realizing he had been taken prisoner. Again.

He knew who he was sleeping next to (Abby), so there was no fear of trying to remember a hazy woman's name.

He knew whose feet were in his face (Abby's – quite the little acrobatic sleeper), which was certainly preferably to waking up with McGee's toxic tootsies up his nose.

He wasn't wheezing or gasping for breath. No coughing, no horrible rib-cracking sensation, no sharp pains anywhere other than the general aches that accompany denying the body the sleep it requires.

He could not be waking up to a pissed off Gibbs, since Gibbs was –

Oh.

Vance.

Tony scrambled to recover his mental defenses. Vance's toothpick was working furiously as he stared down. Something unpleasant was most certainly about to occur.

* * *

Vance was not used to second-guessing himself once he had arrived upon a decision. He may take some time to make the decision; he may later admit (to himself) that he had not made the optimal choice. But once his mind was made up about a particular course of action, nothing stood in his way.

So why was he hesitating to do what needed to be done now?

When he came down looking for DiNozzo and found the agent had finally managed to catch a couple hours sleep, he didn't wake him. He wasn't a monster. It was reasonable for the team to catch some downtime on a case like this. No one could run forever on caffeine alone.

He had surprised himself by watching the two sleep. Scuito looked exactly the same awake and asleep. She even continued her incessant movement in slumber. But DiNozzo looked like a completely different person asleep. He looked…normal. Like a normal guy. No bouncing, clowning around, no annoying traits. No quick changes of expression or posture, no sly grins or significant looks. Just normal.

Though Vance made no noise, DiNozzo woke soon after his arrival. The agent made a small protesting sound deep in his throat as he tried to stretch out with the scientist draped across him. His eyes flashed open to the feet embracing his nose, and he sniffed – and relaxed. Apparently these were not suspicious feet.

In less than a minute, the man's entire body tensed, going almost rigid. When he spotted Vance, he went deceptively limp again. But even though the posture was the same as it had been when he was asleep moments ago, though he did not move from his current position, the normality was gone, and DiNozzo was back.

The agent raised a hand as if to push the feet away, but instead merely moved them both to his left shoulder and encircled them in a strange embrace.

"Director."

"DiNozzo. I have some news."

The first flash of true fear he had ever seen passed through DiNozzo's eyes. "Gibbs?"

"No, nothing on Gibbs." DiNozzo emitted a sigh that deflated his entire body, arms tightening around the feet, which were encased in black socks peppered with pink skulls.

Vance hesitated again. Why didn't the man get up, and face him vertically? Who would stay lying down during what could be a confrontation?

Was he making the right decision, relaying this news without the rest of the team present?

"Jeanne Benoit joined Doctors Without Borders, and has been working primarily in Africa for the past two years."

"Yeah, I knew that. Surprised she's still there, though. That's a long tour over there." The agent's voice sounded guilty.

Shit.

He bit out, "You have no way of knowing if your actions during your undercover mission caused her to join that program. For all you know she would have ended up there anyway."

DiNozzo blinked.

"Director, you being _nice_ to me? What the fuck is going on?"

Vance toyed with the notion of actually being nice. He considered snapping at the man for language and insubordination. The deceptively calm stroking of the be-skulled feet was unnerving him. So he just got it over with.

"Jeanne Benoit died in Africa during a rebellion in Niger nearly a year ago."

Tony stopped breathing.

The younger man's gaze turned inward, his muscles locked, and all movement ceased. Vance eyed him warily for a full minute.

He still hadn't taken a breath.

Vance edged over the two steps to the futon. He gave DiNozzo's shoulder a quick shake.

No response.

"DiNozzo!" he commanded.

Still no response. Damned guy never did listen.

He chewed his toothpick to bits. Reached out and put both his hands on DiNozzo's shoulders and gave him a good firm shake. "Snap out of it!"

Vance jumped back three steps as DiNozzo rose snarling, fast as a fucking new age zombie, his face momentarily an amalgamation of all the terrors that go bump in the night.

The silence that followed as the agent slowly turned crazy creepy face into bland emotionless mask was disconcerting. Once the mask was in place, his body started breathing again – great big labored breaths which he worked to control.

Abby looked to be still asleep, though her legs had fallen half off the futon.

Now DiNozzo had his mask in place, and his breathing quieted. The man's chest still heaved, but he seemed unaware of it.

Vance realized his hands were up, palm out, as if warding something off.

He lowered them and pulled out another individually wrapped toothpick.

Tony tried to say something, but it came out a growl. He tried again, and managed, "How?"

"She was shot to death. Just a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The other man's face twitched, as if trying to settle on an expression. When it did, it landed on what could be called a smile, though an upturned mouth accompanied by eyes of rage, hate and guilt should really have a different moniker.

"Oh. Well that's okay then. That's reassuring." He gave a strangled laugh and rammed his fingers into his hair. "I guess if she hadn't been at that place in that time, she probably wouldn't be dead then. Funny how that works."

"Hey, what did I just tell you? You can't know what would have been. She could have ended up there even without this agency's influence." Why did he pull his "your influence" to "this agency's influence" at the last minute?

Vance scowled.

DiNozzo scowled more impressively.

The director gave in – this one time. DiNozzo got to win the scowl war today. But what the hell was he supposed to do with a lead investigator who had just been told the woman he may still love died a violent death, possibly indirectly because of his own actions?

Did he really have to remove DiNozzo from the case now?

"You will NOT remove me from this case." Tony stalked to Vance and pushed right into his face.

Toothpick again moving furiously, he tried, "I'm sorry this happened, and sorry you had to find out from me. I know it can't have made anything easier. Maybe you should just take an hour or two, go talk to someone. Maybe Ducky –"

"You WILL NOT remove me from this case!"

Shit, he didn't know how to deal with DiNozzo and his chaotic reactions. What would Gibbs do if he was here? Best guess…

"Did I SAY I was removing you from this case, Agent DiNozzo? It's never too late, if you don't GET OUT OF MY FACE."

DiNozzo did not back off. Instead, he leaned in, close enough for Vance to nearly go cross-eyed holding his stare. Then, when their shins were brushing and Vance could see the pores on DiNozzo's face, he smiled again.

It was a fucking scary smile.

Abby slowly sat up, and gave a sleepy little, "Tony?"

DiNozzo's face shut down immediately. Then his forehead relaxed, and his stiffened posture slouched and he backed up a half step. He didn't turn to face her, but offered, "It's okay Abby. Go back to sleep."

"No, it's been almost two hours. I'm good to go. Is there news about Gibbs?" She sounded worried.

"Nothing new that I know of. You're right Abs, we'd better get back to work."

She got up and stood behind him, her forehead resting on the back of his shoulder. "What's up, Tony? What's wrong? You two fighting again?"

"Just a little cranky from being woken up, that's all. The director was actually just briefing me on the background checks he did while we were out."

Both Abby and Vance couldn't help but notice that DiNozzo jerked away from Abby when she touched him.

"I've just got to run to the head quick. Abby, I'll check back in with you in an hour."

And with that, Anthony DiNozzo ran away.

* * *

Tony did visit the little boy's room.

He had worked in this building a long time, and he knew precisely where to go in the basement labyrinth to locate one where no one else ever went.

For once, his mind was not busy. There were very few thoughts going through his head at all. Everything was surprisingly simple.

Just move. Move quietly, move away. Face passive, body normal. Move away. Get alone. Alone, alone, alone…

The weighted door swung shut behind him. As soon as it was closed, his focus washed away and he slowly sank down to the floor. He blinked as he found himself sitting cross-legged on the tile. He didn't remember doing that.

He didn't remember walking far enough to get here, either.

Mmm. Salvation, thy name is shock.

The floor was grimy, and had patches of black goo on it. Apparently the janitors didn't find this restroom often either.

He tried to think about what he came here to think about. But the thoughts slipped around and he couldn't grasp them. They were there, somewhere, bouncing off the inside edges of his head. But his normally buzzing mind felt quiet and numb, like that odd combination of warm/cold you get when frostbite is nipping at your fingers. Yeah, the inside of his head felt like a big snow had just come. Everything was soft and silent, white and smoothly clean. Nothing was moving yet.

He gathered some fallen bits of once-white paper towel and tried to fashion small boats out of them. But the goo was not liquidy enough for the boats to sail.

Sail boats.

He didn't have time for a breakdown now. He was supposed to be finding Gibbs.

He pushed himself up slowly and put his head awkwardly under the faucet. The cold water helped to clear his head a little, but it also caused him to start shaking.

It was definitely the cold water that made shake.

He wanted Gibbs. Gibbs wouldn't even do anything. He probably wouldn't even say anything. But his presence alone was comforting.

When did that start?

He scrubbed his hand through his hair quickly to flick off water droplets.

Jeanne was dead.

No more Jeanne.

Deep, smooth snow, blanketing the world.

* * *

Back upstairs, the squadroom smelled like warm cinnamon. This was not a hallucination - Palmer's girlfriend had made them two dozen hot, fresh cinnamon rolls.

DiNozzo felt sure he couldn't eat. But they were too tempting; as he walked by, he crammed an entire one in his mouth and stuck two more on a napkin.

"S'good," he mumbled through dough.

"Thanks, Tony! I'll pass along the compliment." Palmer pushed up his glasses with a smile and continued pouring Dixie cups of orange juice.

Damn, how did Gibbs manage to survive the cases when Tony went missing without Palmer there?

Ziva was eyeing him strangely.

He dealt with this by ignoring her.

Turning to his less DiNozzo-perceptive partner, he asked, "New leads, McGoo? By the way Tim, you've got cinnamon goo all over your little baby face."

McGee absentmindedly swiped at his chin as he reported. "Not much more on the French guys – Canadian customs still hasn't returned our calls, but hopefully your Inspector can speed things along. We've tried contacting the French police and Interpol for known associates with our lone identified perp. Also nothing."

Everyone watched, horrified, as Palmer approached McGee's still gooey face with a napkin that he spit on. "Here McGee, you've still got a little…Why is everyone staring at me like that?"

Tony gently plucked the offending napkin out of his grasp by a corner, and tossed it in the trash. Then he gave a clean one to McGee. "Jimmy, even Ducky couldn't get away with that. There's no spit cleaning other people's skin in the squadroom." Something occurred to him, and he hastily added, "Or the morgue. Okay?"

Palmer nodded solemnly.

DiNozzo turned back to McGee, hoping for more. Ziva came out from behind her desk and demanded, "Tony, what is wrong?"

"Gibbs is missing, Ziva. Do you need more? 'Cause if so, I can show you this nasty bathroom goop that's making my pants sticky…"

"Tony."

The idea had occurred to all of them, so to put it out of their minds and allow them to concentrate fully on other avenues he would need to remove it from their minds as firmly as possible. A mere, 'she didn't do it,' wouldn't cut it.

Okay. He could do this.

With impeccable timing as always, Abby and Ducky exited the elevator and headed straight for them, Abby stating, "Tony, I know there's something new wrong. Vance isn't here, so tell me what's up? Please?"

Ziva returned, "He was just about to tell us what it is."

Okay, well, best to do it all at once anyway.

Best to do it all at once and not hyperventilate anyway.

He walked over to Gibbs' desk and stood behind the lead agent's chair, his hands clutching at the headrest.

"I want you to abandon any thoughts of Jeanne Benoit as a suspect in this case."

A chorus of "But Tony!"s followed.

He jerked his chin to the side decisively. They shut up. He opened his mouth to talk, gagged on his own throat. Smiled a self-depreciating smile and tried again. "Jeanne died in Africa nearly a year ago. Vance confirmed. We should not be wasting time thinking about that potential connection. It's not there."

Though he did not move out from behind the chair, he did force himself to meet each person's eyes.

McGee paled, and offered a standard (and probably heartfelt) platitude.

Jimmy looked sad, but kept his gaze for a moment.

Abby teared up, and started moving towards him, but was held back by Ducky, who looked back at him with the face of one who has seen countless deaths.

Why should it be hardest to look Ziva in the eye in this situation? It didn't bear thinking about now.

Her eyes were big and black and endless. She came forward and sat on the edge of Gibbs desk; continuing to hold his eyes but lowering herself to a sitting position was a clear sign of submission in their strange little language. She would follow his lead, however he wanted to handle this. For now.

"So," he tried for a cheery tone, "one lead down." Someone choked back a sob. He wasn't actually sure who. "Who else has case-related news?"

Ducky offered, "Timothy and I have a lead on our missing young vending trainee. He may have been spotted by the local constabulary at Union Station. Such a cliché, really."

"McGee, Ziva, gear up. Let's take a drive."

* * *

Gibbs wasn't unconscious, but it was a damn near thing. He was using all of his energy to stay as awake possible, but he kept missing parts of the conversation.

Finally, someone else had come into the kitchen.

He couldn't get his eyes to open. He tried, but they weren't listening to him. So he shifted his attempt to concentrate to the dialogue between the two women.

"…not talking! What if he really doesn't know anything?"

"Just keep asking Siri. You're doing an admirable job. If you think he needs more incentive, use your creativity."

"What if I break him?" She sounded like a child.

"It's okay. He's yours to break. You know why I set this up for you, Siri. You needed the information. I needed bait, and a way to inflict a little retribution on my own NCIS agent problem."

Siri sniffled. The conversation went on, but Gibbs lost a few minutes again.

The second voice didn't sound familiar, and he was confused. Bait? He'd only be truly attractive bait for two agents. And he doubted these angry women were after Ziva.

So –

Gibbs passed out.


	16. Chapter 16

Prifey called as the three field agents headed toward the elevator. Tony paused and gestured to his companions to do the same.

"Give me good news, Prifey."

"Heard the chatter about that BOLO you were interested in. Got hungry. Figured two birds, one stone."

"Which of course means…"

"Got this guy in sight in the food court at Union Station now."

DiNozzo closed his eyes. "Thank you."

"No problem. Not guaranteeing there'll be any fries left by the time you get here." Prifey hung up.

Tony's phone rang again.

He checked the screen and felt a brief smile tug at the corners of his mouth. It hurt.

"Give me good news, Tremblay." Maybe Tremblay and Prifey were part of some international superhero crime-fighting organization, tag-teaming to make a lone federal agent's day a little brighter.

Boy would they both look bad in spandex.

"Good news and bad news. Good news is that I've got names for you." Tremblay rattled off six names that Tony hastily scribbled down in a small notebook. "Four of those guys flew in together, we caught footage of at least three others meeting them at baggage claim and managed to ID two of them. Bad news is at least one guy meeting up with them is unknown, and we believe at least one more was waiting outside in a vehicle. Also, I'm now short one pair of Canadiens tickets."

"I will make it up to you. I will beyond make it up to you."

"No worries. Just wish I could have moved things along faster. You call me if you need anything else." Tremblay disconnected.

Tony stepped back into the bullpen and quickly considered his options. "McGee, drop your stuff and take this list. Ducky and Palmer can do the general background checks, you focus on any connections between these guys and northern Maryland. That special dirt of Abby's is the only potential location we've got so far."

McGee willingly dropped his bag and took the list. "Palmer can do background checks?"

Jimmy nodded. "Palmer can do background checks. You pick these things up after six years of watching."

Tony squeezed both their shoulders and combated the extremely sudden and beyond extremely embarrassing urge to weep.

What the hell?

He shoved both of the guys towards desks and nodded at Ducky while he hustled back to Ziva and the elevator.

He brooded as they rode silently down. This was not a good development. Now was not the time to start losing control of any kind. Now was especially not the time to start questioning his own emotional wreckage. So what if Gibbs was missing? All the more reason to focus on his job and get the man back before any permanent damage was done. To either of them.

So what if he found Gibbs' will? It should be a positive thing to know the man cared about him that much. Even if he couldn't say it when he was alive.

So what if he found out he killed Jeanne?

He handed Ziva the keys. For once, it might be more dangerous if he drove.

* * *

Ziva navigated the company car through DC traffic with a deft hand and a lead foot. She saw no reason to waste time with stop lights when Gibbs was in danger, and their temporary leader was pale as a ghost.

To specify, he was pale as a ghost before he got in the car she was driving.

She did not fear that Tony would lose it. Though his self-control manifested itself in strange forms at times, it was very clear that he had a great deal of it.

But these were harsh blows. Ziva wished to address the subject of Jeanne, but was unclear how to proceed without causing more damage.

She glanced over at her partner, who remained uncharacteristically silent. He was not even making negative comments on her driving habits.

It seemed likely that he was brooding over Jeanne, and not quietly contemplating the case. Therefore it would be best to distract him and get him talking again. Yes?

She searched around for some topic that seemed safe. As they parked and made their way into the mall, inspiration struck. "I am surprised that you have had so little to say on the closing of the movie theater here."

Tony blinked a few times and struggled to smile. This struggle failed. "It's sad there's not mainstream theater in downtown DC anymore."

She waited for him to pick up one of the tangents he had already perfected on this topic. It was of course untrue that he had made few comments on the closing of this theater. He had made many, and at great length. Some on the films offered at the E Street Cinema, which he liked very much but as they did not play the big blockbusters, one still needed to go elsewhere at times. He had many stories on how much fun it had been to watch certain movies at the former theater, which had a reputation for a loud and raucous audience. He also had a diatribe describing how certain movies that required concentration were indeed best seen in other, quieter, settings.

But he remained silent as they briskly made their way past tourists and shoppers. She recalled now that the phrase "French connection" had been used numerous times in the past few hours, and he had yet to make a movie reference.

This was unsettling.

"Tony –"

"Ziva, not now." He shut her down as he jogged down the stairs to the food court. Prifey was easy to spot, slurping a strawberry shake at a nearby counter. Tony slowed his near-run to an amble, and threw his arm over her shoulder.

She managed not to flinch at the sudden, unexpected contact. However, she feared her brief stiffness may have given her away. She did not want to offend him – it was a gesture made a thousand times, when posing undercover as a couple, and in real life.

It was a large relief when Tony rubbed the top of her shoulder with his thumb. Both that he took no offense, and that he was aware enough despite all that had happened to notice the aberration in her body language. Normally she would wish he were less perceptive, but now was not that time.

He greeted his friend and sat down, back to the counter. "Prifey. Still got eyes on?"

The big detective grunted a response in the affirmative. "Near the other staircase. Gray t-shirt and jeans. Looks real nervous." He held his shake out to Ziva.

"No, thank you." She smiled at him, and was again glad that the man stuck by her during their original investigation of the scene of Gibbs' kidnapping. It had shaken her more than she liked, and she found Prifey's solid bulk and good-natured grumbling reassuring after a while, though originally she had been irritated that Tony thought she needed a keeper. Prifey was no keeper, and had no intentions of telling her how to do her job. He merely moved about, always within sight, conducting his own visual inspection.

She approved of Tony's friend.

Prifey shrugged at her dismissal and after an exaggerated pause, slowly stretched out to offer the shake to DiNozzo, who batted it away. He had his eye on his prize, now.

"Ziva." He stood up and walked in the general direction of the boy, eyes never landing on him. She followed at his side, widening the gap between them as they grew closer. "Look at that dress!" She pointed upstairs to a nonexistent luxurious gown. "We must go look at it!"

The space between them widened as they approached the boy's table.

"Now's not really the best time, dear." She hated how he said "dear" when undercover. It was always with a hint of mocking. She was unsure what he was mocking, possibly the word or the situation itself. But it was not comfortable.

Their argument continued until she "accidentally" bumped into a chair that rammed their suspect – subject – into the wall. "Oh, I am so sorry!" She moved in as if to apologize further, and neatly hemmed him in on one side.

Tony made a neat job of pretending to move the table to the side so she could get closer to her victim. In actuality, he moved the table into the boy's stomach so that he was pinned. He then approached on the opposite side from Ziva, and they both seated themselves companionably. Prifey strolled over and took a chair opposite the boy, his big form effectively cutting off most bystanders' views.

Tony leaned in, a concerned look on his face and a dangerous, velvety tone to his voice. "NCIS. Larry, your mommy's very worried about you."

The boy's very freckled face turned bright red as he burst into tears and buried his head in Tony's shoulder.

"Larry." DiNozzo patted the kid on the shoulder and tried to pull him away. Larry resisted, and burrowed more ferociously into Tony's chest.

As her partner appeared to be seriously contemplating the use of violence, Ziva leaned forward and applied herself to one of the pressure points on the boy's hand to gain his attention.

She got it.

He turned to look at her and she nearly recoiled. The boy looked remarkably like Chip. Fairer haired and younger, but still – much like Chip.

She hated Chip.

Possibly she growled.

Prifey moved quickly and pulled her (including the chair she was sitting in) away from the crying mess of a boy. "Larry, these agents have some questions for you. Let's you and me take a drive so everyone can calm down a bit before we talk." He wrapped one massive hand around the back of the boy's neck and pulled him up, then pushed him forward.

Glancing back at the two NCIS agents, Prifey added, "I'll see you two back at your headquarters in twenty. Go get a milkshake or something, would ya?"

Tony and Ziva shared a glance in which they debated the pros and cons of chasing Prifey down, taking Larry back, and questioning the boy with his face smashed into the scuffed mall floor tiles. They decided against it. Mostly because they did not want to be stuck in the car with the sniveling mess.

Tony glanced over at the shop with the ice cream and scratched the side of his jaw with one finger. Ziva wrinkled her nose.

Together, they rose and started back for the car.

Ziva decided to try. "I am very sorry to hear that Jeanne is dead. That must have been very difficult news to digest."

"Vance woke me up to tell me."

"Oh."

"Tony –"

"I'm fine, Ziva."

"I doubt that. But it was not what I was going to address."

"What, then?"

"Vance is an ass."

With a flash of a real smile, Tony swung his arm around her shoulders again. This time, she did not flinch. In fact, she felt a little better.

They were still a functioning unit. They would get Gibbs back, and then Tony could mourn his idea of Jeanne properly.

For the first time since McGee had called her two days ago, Ziva momentarily relaxed.

* * *

It was a crying shame that Prifey was called away by Metro shortly after the group arrived at NCIS headquarters. His help would have been highly desirable.

Larry kept sobbing, and Tony had no patience for this. Not now.

Gibbs couldn't help with the interrogation, for obvious reasons.

Tony couldn't warrant pulling McGee away from his current task of matching nasty illegal French guys to properties in northern Maryland.

Ziva was even less use questioning this kid than he was. One of them was going to smack him eventually.

Sighing, DiNozzo did something he had never done before.

* * *

When Vance learned the missing vending assistant had been found, he waited for one of Gibbs' team to report in.

No one came.

He waited another ten minutes, then stalked out of his office in a huff. Leaning over the railing, he could see McGee at his desk, and Dr. Mallard and his young assistant occupying David and DiNozzo's desks.

Continuing on to the interrogation rooms, he checked in the first observation room only to find it empty.

Irked, he opened the second observation room and found Ziva and a tech occupying it. He strolled in casually, as if he just happened by. "Report, David."

Arms folded tightly against her body and eyes glittering in the low light, she replied, "We have found young Larry Adams with the help of Metro. He is, however, not cooperating."

Vance peered around Ziva to find a young man sobbing wretchedly, head down on the table. "Jesus David, what did you two do to the kid?"

"Nothing. He came to us in this condition."

Not believing her for a moment, Vance quickly stepped out of the room and into the interrogation room itself. He pulled a chair over to the young man and tried to gentle his voice and mannerisms. "Son, can you tell me what's wrong? If someone hurt you or threatened you, I need to know about it. I can help you." The boy sniffled a great wad of snot back and wiped his eyes. He straightened up and briefly looked the director in the eye.

Aha. Progress. These field agents thought they were better at this stuff than their betters.

"Larry, can you tell me –" Larry, apparently deciding Vance seemed safe, let out a wail and dove face-first into Vance's shirt.

The disgusting sniffle had not sucked back in all the snot, as much of it was now decorating his formerly-clean suit coat and shirt.

Well, damn.

He tried talking to the boy a bit more, then tried gently removing him. The kid stuck like a barnacle. Finally, he wrenched the offending creature away from him and hastily fled the interrogation room.

He found DiNozzo in the hall, sans jacket and sporting several snot-stained blotches on his dove gray designer shirt.

The two shared an almost sympathetic look for a moment. Then DiNozzo opened his mouth, and Vance was sure this field agent was about to berate him for entering interrogation. The nerve of this jerk…

"Ziva's got antibacterial wipes in there," DiNozzo jerked his chin towards the observation room. "We're trying something outside the normal playbook. Should be ready in a moment if you want to stick around and watch the horror unfold."

Uncertain what to do with this current version of DiNozzo, Vance turned and went back into the observation room.

Ziva immediately held out a container of wipes. She looked a little cheerier than before.

The tech did not look up this time to acknowledge the director's presence as he normally would.

Vance had the uneasy feeling that the tape of his excursion into interrogation would not stay as confidential as he would like.

As he tried to wipe off his clothing without thinking about what he was wiping off, he saw the door to interrogation open, and DiNozzo enter, leaving the door curiously open behind him.

"Larry, buddy, this is your one last shot to suck it up and talk to me man to man. If you can't pull it together, I'm gonna have to resort to an alternative interrogation technique. I don't think you're going to like it much."

Tony danced around the room as the snot machine made another lunge at him.

"Bad Larry. Pull yourself together kid! I still don't even know why you're fucking crying!"

Vance was a little worried about DiNozzo's version of an alternative interrogation technique, but not enough to go back in there.

Larry leaned back down on the table, and seemed to be trying to say something finally. "H…H…H…"

Vance leaned in. Ziva shook her head. "He has done this already. He is just hyperventilating."

Tony also shook his head, in eerie synchronicity with his unseen partner. "Sorry, Larry. I warned you. I can't waste any more time trying to calm your ass down. You're just going to have to deal with what comes next."

With that, he nodded at the open doorway, and a large teal and purple blur walked in and smacked the boy on the head. DiNozzo walked back to the door and leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed. He smiled up at the camera.

"Lawrence. Lassiter. Adams. Where have you been? Do you know how worried everyone is about you? Do you know that there is a missing, god-fearing, federal agent and these people think you can help find him? Did I raise you to be a blubbering fool? Did I raise you to lie? I'd like to hear your reasons for skipping out on your job, being absent from your classes, worrying all the women in your life…"

The mantra went on.

Larry tried to cry into his mother's ample bosom but every time he came near, she smacked him. Eventually his sobbing turned to sniffles, and his mother slowly turned from berating to actual questions.

Her prompting was shockingly similar to a standard line of interrogation.

Vance glanced back towards DiNozzo, who lazed against the wall.

It was possible this was a brilliant move; finding the one person who could control the subject and prepping her well, and quickly, before she entered the room could save everyone hours that Gibbs may not have.

Larry regressed for a minute and released a giant sob. His mother hit him on the head with a handy manila folder.

It was also possible DiNozzo just found the one person who could get away with cuffing the kid in an interrogation room.

Larry was starting to use real words now, though they were soft and shuddering, and hard to interpret from the next room.

Ziva spoke up, "He said he was sneaking a smoke break outside – from her unhappy reaction one assumes his mother did not know of this habit – and overheard a partial conversation that sounded none to healthy to be listening to."

At Vance's raised eyebrow she gave a dangerously sweet smile. "I have much practice understanding what men say regardless of the condition they may be in. Lawrence adds that he did not hear much, but they were discussing the movements of one or more NCIS agents. They mentioned that one agent had left town, and were excited, as it provided them with an opportunity to gain access to another agent." She paused. "He ran because he was afraid they saw him peeking around the corner of a dumpster. He caught a glimpse of them."

DiNozzo opened a folder on the table and pulled out several photos. "Are any of these men part of the group you saw, Larry?"

"N-n-no," Larry stuttered. "It wasn't men. It was two women."

Silence reigned.

DiNozzo recovered first. He pushed away from the wall. "Describe the two women."

"Um, one was younger. Maybe thirty. Big eyes. Strawberry blonde hair, kinda short. Looked…looked like a doll."

"Okay Larry, that's good."

Ziva reached for her phone and began the process of calling in a sketch artist.

"Tell me about the other one."

After a shuddering intake of breath, the boy continued. "The other one was older. Maybe sixty? She was the one in charge. She was scary." He glanced towards his mother, who loomed behind him. "Um, the younger one seemed a little crazy or stupid, like she wasn't all there. But I didn't hear much."

"What did she look like, Larry. What did the older lady look like?"

"Umm, I guess she was a little taller than the younger one. Her face was a little narrower, not so round. She had red hair – I guess dyed. She spoke kinda ritzy, and very commanding. Expensive clothes, really expensive jewelry. She had a lot of sparkly stuff on. Big sparkly circle earrings. Lines in her face, but really put together for an older lady, you know?"

Tony froze. Just for a moment, but it was obvious as he froze midstride. Something flashed in his eyes as he recovered, his face tightened. He pointed one finger at both the boy and his mother and growled, "Stay." He left the room.

Vance moved to follow the agent but Ziva held up a hand. "I do not know what is going on, but he would not leave for long without assigning someone else to watch the witness. Give him five minutes."

DiNozzo returned in three, another folder in hand.

He sat heavily in the chair across from Larry and opened the folder to another picture. "Is this the older woman you saw?"

"Yes! That's her. Is she…" Larry whispered. "Is she wanted?"

A muscle twitched in Tony's jaw. "She is now." He exited the room, closing the door behind him sharply. A second later, the door to the observation room opened. "Ziva?"

"I have called in a sketch artist to work with the boy. She will be here soon. I will call for someone to watch him in the meantime."

DiNozzo left abruptly. As Ziva placed her call, Vance asked, "Do you know the woman in that picture?"

"I do not." Eyes ahead, she followed DiNozzo without question, leaving Vance to follow.

* * *

"McGee, report."

"I can give you priors, past movements, known associates, whatever you want about these guys Tremblay gave us. But no ties to northern Maryland so far."

Tony kicked Palmer out of his desk and pulled a file up, setting it to display on the plasma. "Meet Dr. Helen Berkley. She and an unknown younger female were seen near the Navy Yard discussing the movements of two NCIS agents."

"How did you know who she was, DiNozzo?" It figured Vance, the constant pain in his ass, would be the one to ask that out loud.

Tony ignored the urge to continue speaking to the plasma screen and turned, staring Vance directly in the eye as he spoke a little louder than was necessary. "Dr. Helen Berkley lost her husband to somewhat mysterious circumstances a few years back," he continued is a quieter, but no less intense tone, "and lost her daughter, Jeanne Benoit, less than a year ago."

Ducky moved closer to place a hand on Tony's arm, murmuring, "Oh dear lord. You poor boy…" Tony moved away.

"McGee."

"Ah, right. Yes. Searching for connections between Dr. Berkley and northern Maryland." McGee began typing furiously.

Tony wasn't finished yet. "Dr. Mallard, would you please share with the group the part of your profile on Le Grenouille that upset Director Sheppard."

Ducky offered, "Do you mean my stating that though the man did indeed deal in death given the items for which he transacted, that he was not by nature a man of violence?"

"Yes, that is what I was referring to." Tony closed his eyes to corral his wildly pinballing thoughts, then glanced over at Ducky with an apology in his eyes. He did not mean to behave rudely to the old doctor, he just…he just better finish this little debriefing session quickly. He let his mind slip back to the days when he and Jenny had formed their own little screwed up team.

"Though Le Grenouille did evidence the business savvy necessary to run the organization he was suspected of running and also displayed the occasional ruthlessness necessary to keep those who worked for him in line, the question always remained how a man of his nature got started in the arms business." Well, the question had remained for him, at least. "The man was not himself prone to violent acts, nor did he seem to care to order violence done without reason. Being from an affluent family, he also did not lack money."

Ziva stated, "You met Jeanne's mother once, as I recall. What was your impression of her?"

Tony gave one of his definitely not reassuring smiles, and answered, "That she was a very dangerous lady, Ziva. Most especially when it came to protecting what she viewed as hers."

Vance, the bastard, thought it helpful to add, "And what would be more hers than her own daughter? She blames you for Jeanne's death."

"Thank you, director! That thought had not occurred to me, director. Now everything is suddenly clear, director!" Though he wanted to punch the former boxer in the kisser, he didn't have the time for this. He waved Ziva back from where she was advancing towards Vance's blind spot.

Tony and Vance squared off for a moment, Ziva and Ducky at either side, quite willing to jump their employer, if Tony was any judge of the situation. Palmer stood in the corner, nervously fondling the Mighty Mouse stapler. It was a good thing Abby wasn't up here, in case this really did turn into a brawl.

McGee interrupted the tense moment, sounded excited. "Tony. Tony! I found something." Everyone in the room turned to him. "She's renting a farm house in northern Maryland, Tony. No neighbors five miles to any side. That has to be it. Right? It has to be it…but why would she be so sloppy?"

"It wasn't sloppy, Tim. She did it on purpose. She wants me to come." He pulled his gun out of his desk drawer. "Here's how this is going to work."

* * *

_A/N: FYI, this story is nearly done! Well, sort of. I've now split the original idea into two separate parts, and the second half will be posted later as a sequel to this story. Don't worry, we'll find Gibbs before this one ends. Before I start posting the sequel, however, I'm hoping to start putting up my pre-series fic. I welcome any thoughts on previous pre-series (really, 'How Gibbs met Tony' tales) fics you did/did not like, and especially on what you'd like to see but haven't yet. I have my own opinion on the topic, but some details have yet to be worked out and I am very interested in people's views on this._

_In the above chapter there was a brief mention to a change in Ziva resulting from her time in Somolia. If you want to read a story in which someone actually attempts to deal with this often-ignored concept at length, I encourage you to read AlkalineTeegan's "Night Terrors." _

_All right, let the feedback commence. Hit me with it!_


	17. Chapter 17

Tony was displeased but unsurprised that only five additional NCIS field agents could be scraped together last minute to join the rescue party. Six, if you included the director, who was behind them riding along with some of the other agents. Seven if you included Ducky, who rode with the agents in the third car in their little wagon train.

Palmer had been left behind with the thankless and possibly hopeless duty of keeping Abby busy while the rest of them went Gibbs-hunting.

Ziva sat cross-legged in the middle of the backseat, fondling her largest knife with steady hands. She had disappeared briefly before they left, he assumed to arm up. The amount of weaponry that woman could store on her not-so-big body was amazing. And, today, reassuring.

Tony himself usually carried only his primary weapon and belt buckle knife with a Swiss Army knife in his backpack. For today's special occasion, he also had a throwing blade secreted away on his person and a backup gun strapped to his ankle. He had discarded his suit for faded, worn jeans, a clean blue t-shirt and an old leather jacket with a copious amount of pockets. Whatever happened, he did not want to run out of ammo.

McGee sat solidly behind the wheel, for once speeding, but going nowhere near as fast as either of his partners would've been tempted to go. This was one of the reasons DiNozzo threw him the keys earlier.

It was unlikely that McGee had any large knives on his person beyond his usually multi-purpose Leatherman. McGee never had much luck learning to throw, though Ziva had been extremely patient and persistent in her attempts. Tim, too, had his primary and backup guns with him today.

McGee's hands were steady as well. Tony felt a quick sliver of pride at the difference between this Tim and the Probie of years ago. This man was confident, and considerably calmer than he would have been even two years ago. McGee was worthy of being a partner now, and if his ego would just stop expanding, he would in fact be the hell of an agent Tony and Gibbs had hoped he would grow into.

If it didn't – well, DiNozzo didn't look forward to slapping the kid down, but he would. Being the director's favorite didn't result in anything good; better to smack him back to reality now than have it come crashing down on him later in the field.

Tony shifted his thoughts from Jenny.

His own hands were steady as well, though he did not think to notice. Since identifying Jeanne's mother as the kidnapper, his intent had been rock solid. This was his case, his action, and his agent to protect and recover. He would lead this mission. If the director or anyone else put one foot out of place, he would yank them and lock them in the trunk. No one outranked the team leader in the middle of a field rescue.

His blood buzzing, Tony looked around for something to distract them with without causing complete loss of focus. They had another hour on their drive yet, and brooding was not the most constructive preparation for an armed conflict.

He stilled as he noted a red SUV fast approaching in the right lane. He was sure Ziva noticed it too. McGee seemed unaware.

Tony turned to stare at the youngest agent with an eyebrow raised. "Still got a ways to go yet, McGoo?"

With an irritated glance, bigger-than-my-britches boy responded, "Tony, you know how far we have left to go. You're the one who lived in Maryland for two years."

"Not what I meant, Probie," Tony said, resorting to the much-hated nickname to indicate the agent's failure to live up to expectations. McGee snapped around, searching for what he had missed just as the SUV pulled even with their car and began to pace them.

Ziva slouched down, cracked a window and positioned herself to fire. Tony glanced at the driver and saw a young, clean-cut guy wearing –

He let out a startled laugh, and waved Ziva off. "McGee, pull over." He waved at the driver of the other vehicle, who sped ahead to give them room to move over, and the pulled off the road. McGee followed, parking on the shoulder, and the two NCIS fleet cars behind them mimicked their movements.

Tony lazily opened his door and stretched as all four doors of the SUV opened simultaneously, and their passengers disembarked as if in concert with each other.

Smiling, he rose to greet Tremblay. "You lost or something?"

"Mounties don't get lost. We're just on vacation."

"In your dress reds?"

Tremblay shrugged. "They are comfortable."

Tony eyed all the pockets. Comfortable and useful. "How did you even know where to find us?"

"We are investigators ourselves, you know. Tracking – in any format – is one of our specialties." He glanced at the other NCIS agents. "House could have a couple dozen armed guards for all you know. I thought you Americans went in with large numbers and overpowering force."

"We're not the FBI. NCIS handles things a little differently." It sounded better than 'NCIS doesn't have that kind of manpower, and we didn't want to give up control of this case to the FBI.'

Tremblay offered a hand, which Tony gladly took. "We seem to be traveling in the same direction, neighbor, and we'd be happy to help with your little problem."

Ziva stepped up to ask, "You have just crossed customs, yes? Were you able to keep your weapons?"

The inspector stepped back with a smile and gestured towards his men, who opened the back of the SUV to reveal a rather hefty arsenal. "Don't you worry about us. We take care of ourselves just fine."

Tony began mentally rearranging his attack strategy to include four armed red beacons of Canadian goodness.

* * *

The farm house was separated from its neighbors by several acres, but was not set far off of the county road it was located on. Tony opted to pull their vehicles off to the side of the road about a quarter mile before they reached the house, and approach on foot the rest of the way.

Despite his protests, they left Ducky in the car, loaded pistol in one hand, medical bag ready in the other.

The Mounties were obviously used to working in sync with each other, so after a moment's debate, Tony decided not to split them up. He assigned them the rear of the house. He, Ziva and McGee would take the front, Vance and two of the other agents to cover the eastern side door, and the remaining three to cover the large barn-turned-garage.

It would've been nice if the Mounties had brought horses so they could cover the perimeter better. Ah, well. A boy could dream.

He stopped them all in the last cover available, a thicket of trees, and took the time to look each man and woman in the eye. Satisfied with what he saw, he signaled for the garage team to lead out first, then motioned out the rear door team. Finally he and Vance led out their teams.

His eyes flicked around to everything as he approached the front door. He took in as much sensory information as possible and trusted his instincts to let him know if something seemed hinky. No signs of guards yet. He bellowed, "Federal agents! We have a warrant to search these premises. Come out with your hands up!"

McGee spared a dubious glance for him, which he ignored. Legal probably had the warrant by now.

As they ascended the stairs of the wraparound porch, two shots rang out towards the garage. A motor revved, and a flurry of gunshots followed.

He steeled himself against running towards the fighting, against worrying over the other agents.

They were there. The fucking kidnappers were there, shooting. So the chances were, Gibbs was still there too.

Ziva held the screen door open as he kicked in the main door. Once – twice – the door popped open. It was a thick bastard, but the lock was cheap.

They rushed the room weapons raised, and immediately met with gunfire.

* * *

Gibbs awoke to the sound of shots fired, seemingly on all sides of him. He tried to orient himself. Was his head injury affecting his hearing? Maybe it was target practice and the sounds were just resounding around in his damn malfunctioning head.

Siri slipped into the room, sliding the door closed behind her. He continued to hear the shots, punctuated with a, "Put your weapons down and come out with your hands above your head!" which was met with the sound of yet more gunshots.

That was DiNozzo's voice.

He felt some strength come back into his limbs, and focus return to his mind. No one else had entered the kitchen yet, and his slight glimpse at the window showed him nothing of use. He turned his attention back to Broken Barbie, who had rushed him with a big ladle in hand.

Girl was batshit crazy. Nuttier than squirrel shit. She thrust her face into his, screaming, "WHERE IS JAMES?" and brandishing the ladle near his partly swollen shut eye as though carrying a butcher knife. Which, coincidentally, still sat on the counter, never touched.

"I do not KNOW!" Gibbs shouted back as loud as he could, hoping his team would hear him and pin his location. He couldn't be sure if they would, as the gunshots continued all around. It sounded like a god damn war zone out there. He realized he had not heard any "Freeze, FBI!" shouts that Fornell's boys loved to call out. Jesus, had his team come here alone? He hoped there were more than three agents returning fire out there. His people were good, but if they were as outnumbered as it sounded, they were all screwed.

Siri hit him over the head with the ladle. It hurt on top of his other injuries, but – it was a plastic ladle. He didn't take more damage, just stared at her then rasped out, "Siri, you can still run. Get out of here. You haven't killed anyone yet. You don't have a gun," he hoped, "and they're all busy right now. Just get out, slip away." He wasn't trying to protect her. He was just trying to get her the hell out before she thought of something actually destructive to hit him with. And, did he need his team to meet his torturer?

She had butterfly barrettes in her hair. It was embarrassing.

With a scream, she flung the ladle into the window. It bounced off harmlessly.

He had to remember that for Tony. The kid would get a kick out of it.

Siri ran over to the counter, towards the knife block.

Shit.

She picked it up, shook the knives out to scatter all over the floor, and ran back at him, eyes blazing red, apparently intending to clobber him with the knife block itself.

* * *

Vance and his team didn't even get a chance to enter the house before they were pinned down. Two shooters took aim at them from inside the house, and they were in danger of catching flyaway bullets from the garage team's battle behind them.

He motioned for the other two agents to flatten themselves against the house as he did so himself, edging closer to the door. He put two shots in the lock. The door began to swing open.

Dammit, he wished he knew the layout of the house. He wanted to rush the door, but had no clue if they'd be walking into an ambush, or have any kind of cover once inside.

A body came hurling out the window to his right to crash into the hydrangeas.

It didn't appear to be anyone he had come here with.

A Mountie stuck his head out the now-open window and gave him a little smile and wave, then disappeared back inside.

Vance rushed the door, leaving his two agents to guard the entrance behind him.

* * *

Tremblay and his team reached the back just before Tony's call out front identifying himself as a federal agent. As such, they were lucky enough to take the two men at the back door before they had a chance to draw their weapons.

Neatly laying both men outside the door with hands and feet zip-tied, the four of them entered. By the sound of it, all three other teams were now in the midst of gun battles. Tremblay silently motioned for two of his men to approach the closest, at the east entrance, while he and his remaining man headed up the stairs right in front of them, per DiNozzo's plan.

They quickly swept through the upstairs, finding signs of habitation in the bedrooms and bathrooms, but no people. As they moved to go back down to the first floor, Tremblay heard a creak on the steps between shots. If the other NCIS agents were still under fire, that left…

Positioning himself against the corner, he had a split second before whoever came up the stairs would be able to see him.

He punched the intruder hard in the face.

Vance fell down to the floor.

Hmm. Good thing he hadn't shot him.

* * *

Tony, Ziva and McGee were tightly squeezed between a large sofa and the wall. The sofa was adequate cover for now, but there was a good chance these guys were used to hanging around with an arms dealer or two, and if that was the case there were likely some machine guns hidden somewhere. Machine gun beats couch every time.

He scooted out from the left side of the couch to hide behind a matching loveseat. Bullets followed in his wake, thudding against the wall. One caught the edge of his calf, a mere burn.

His new cover wasn't any better, and his angle on the two shooters was even worse. But at least he had split their attention now.

He popped his head up for another quick look.

Bullets hit the window behind him, and he learned nothing of use.

There had to be some way… This time he stayed low to the floor, and peeked out from behind the left side of the loveseat. Bullets impaled the ugly pastel rose vine pattern as he hastily ducked back. However, he had an idea.

Gesturing to Ziva and McGee to be on the ready, he quickly lunged up and then threw himself into a roll in the middle of the floor. Ziva swore behind him, not ready for what probably appeared to be a suicide run. As a bullet smacked into the wood floor next to him, he took aim and shot out the light fixture above their two adversaries.

Both men ducked down to avoid the flying glass, giving Ziva the half-second she needed to reach them. Shooting one in the chest point blank, she whipped around to the other only to have him catch her gun arm. With a growl she caught his, and slammed the man backwards into the wall. Locked tight, the two seemed to be an even match until McGee took a brass lamp to the man's head.

Ziva looked down to the crumpled man now on the floor. "That was hardly sporting, McGee." McGee half-smiled, not sure if she was kidding or not.

Tony stood and pushed past his partners into the next room.

As a consequence, he caught the first bullet fired by the newest shooter, who had just arrived at the top of the stairs.

* * *

Tremblay and Vance, who had an obviously broken nose, approached what should have been the dining room side-by-side. Neither particularly wanted the other at his back.

It had been ominously silent for over a minute, but as they neared the door, gunshots rang out anew. They watched Tony fall, Ziva fall on top of him, and McGee slam back against the wall, two-handing his weapon out in front of him and firing as rapidly as possible. He slid down the wall as Ziva made a small movement and suddenly a very large knife left her fingertips for destinations unknown.

Vance, Tremblay and the three constables slid into the room, aiming their pistols in all directions, back-to-back in a five-pointed circle.

The shooter lie dead in the basement door, several bullet holes in his chest and a knife in his throat.

Ziva rose. There was a streak of blood running down her arm, but her breathing was even and she seemed relatively unharmed. McGee propped himself up on one arm, the bullet hole in his left shoe beginning to overflow with nearly black blood. He turned his head towards Tony, face filled with more concern than pain. His chest heaved.

Tremblay sent his men to sweep the basement and approached Tony, just as Ziva knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse.

Tony's eyes flew open and he issued a rusty rumble of laughter. "Nothing like a good through and through to really get your blood pumping." He sat up remarkably quickly, hand to his left shoulder.

Ziva moved his hand and gently but quickly peeled the jacket away from his chest on the left side, revealing rivulets of blood pouring down. She began to rummage through his pockets, but he stopped her. "Tony, we need a bandage. I thought I saw you tuck away something that would work."

"I'm fine," he said in a strikingly normal tone of voice.

Tremblay opened his belt pouch and pulled out a roll of gauze and several cloth squares. He knelt on the other side of Tony and began putting the squares inside the front of his jacket, and on the back of the outside, and wrapping it in place as best he could under Tony's arm without jostling the injury too much. "McGee?" He asked, the rest of the question unnecessary.

"I'll wait for the medics. There's not much we can do until we get the shoe off anyway. It can wait."

Tony huffed out another small laugh and looked over at his younger partner, eyes shining brightly. As Tremblay finished tying off the rough field dressing, Tony grabbed Ziva and pulled himself up. The other four all protested, but he waved them off with his right hand as the three constables climbed back up the stairs, and over the body at the top.

"No one down there, sir, and no sign anyone's been held down there," they reported.

* * *

Tony found the pain a very calming influence in what could have been a near-panic moment. Where the fuck was Gibbs?

"Tremblay, can you take your men and check on the other team?" The four Mounties hurried off towards the back door.

Vance contributed, "We checked the second floor. No one's up there."

McGee pulled himself up to stand on one foot with the help of the wall, and Vance moved over to steady him.

Without much hope, Tony opened the pocket door from the dining room to what must be the kitchen, the last unchecked room in the house.

Suddenly he had a view of a very battered Gibbs sitting in an old wooden rocker, and a crazy little harpie running at him full tilt, apparently intending to clobber him with a big piece of wood.

Considering she was not carrying a projectile weapon, Tony very calmly pulled his gun from his waistband and shot her in the thigh.

Injuries and fears pushed aside with the sight of their ultimate goal, the three teammates wove into the kitchen in an intricate braid of movement that came naturally to them after many years together, even McGee moving smoothly within the pattern despite his shot foot.

All three of them paled as they began to see the Gibbs' outward condition, and the knives strewn across the floor. How much damage did they do to him?

Stomach rebelling at the thought, Tony nearly missed the motion of the woman on the floor grabbing one of the knives.

Did Gibbs just mutter, "Finally?"

She turned to Tony and screamed, "WHERE IS JAMES?" Her face was twisted up in a mass of crazed anger.

Tony thought she looked like one of Rayman's Raving Rabbids in full scream mode.

His mind swung the Wheel of Suspects in his brain, and quickly landed on Siri Albert, one of many duped fiancés by a now-dead lance corporal. Seems she had moved beyond a little catfight into more violent pastimes.

He sighed and prepared to shoot as she twisted around, a knife now in each hand, trying to figure out how to come at him. He didn't have the ability to wrestle with her right now. If she posed an imminent danger, he was going to have to take her out, even if Gibbs didn't like it when they had to kill women.

Ziva snuck up behind Siri and hit her hard over the head with a coffeepot. She dropped like a stone, unconscious.

Gibbs snorted and gave one decisive nod, as though he approved of the method by which the lady was felled.

Tony gestured, gun in hand, and articulated his command, "Secure the room." Ziva swept the side and peered out the window, Vance moved the door. Tony started kicking knives under the kitchen island.

"It appears our Canadian friends have turned the tide of the outside battle," Ziva reported from the window. "It does not look as if they need additional help."

McGee had moved slowly to Gibbs' side and had his little knife in hand, trying to cut him free. He was leaning as far away from Gibbs as possible, as though afraid his mere nearness could cause the man more pain.

Ziva moved away from the window to move Siri to the wall and secure her wrists, then moved to work on Gibbs' other arm restraint. Vance stayed in the doorway after a glare from Tony warned him not to move.

After Tony kicked the last knife out of harm's way and assured there were no other blades or guns handy in the kitchen, the turned back to Gibbs to find the man standing, shakily, with the help of both the younger agents.

He was trying to straighten up and stand on his own. His eyes were squinted in pain and his breathing strained, but there was a curl of determination at the edge of his mouth. Tony recognized the signs. The man was trying to cover up his injuries and take back control of his team.

All the fear Tony had felt in the last three days congealed in his chest as a massive ball of anger.

Gibbs hair was matted with blood, either from being struck with a blunt object or from the car crash. His face was a mass of bruises, and his other exposed skin red and blistered from some kind of burn. Portions of his skin and clothes were shredded – literally shredded – and the man's nose resembled raw hamburger. Part of his left forearm was missing neat squares of skin entirely. There was a discarded meat mallet on the floor nearby that could not have been up to anything good.

Gibbs managed one shaky step forward, nearly overbalancing McGee who himself was wobbling on one foot, and forcing Ziva to lean in and pull them both back, nearly overbalancing in the other direction and certainly causing Gibbs more pain. Still, the man refused to back down.

Tony felt his face go smooth, his eyes suddenly as hot as the pain in his shoulder. He moved to stand two paces in front of Gibbs and stared intently at the man. Though he usually worked to hide his height advantage over Gibbs, now seemed the perfect time to use it.

Tony loomed.

Gibbs scowled.

Tony commanded, "Sit back down in that chair."

Gibbs rebutted, "Been in that damned chair long enough."

Tony's voice turned smoothly dangerous, a silken tone he had not used on Gibbs in over eight years. "You're in no condition to be standing. There's nothing in the next room but bodies, and the couches in the living room are in pieces. Thus, this is the closest chair, and you will sit in it."

Gibbs growled and lurched, as though he intended to walk over and smack Tony on the head.

"Sit."

"No."

"SIT!" Tony snapped, causing McGee to jump and nearly crash over again.

Very slowly, Tony stuck his gun back in his waistband and raised his right hand, index finger pointed towards Gibbs as though he was going to point the man back to his damn seat. Once his hand was straight out in front of his body, though, he raised a second finger, so that his middle and index finger were tightly together, pointing at Gibbs. Then, looking first McGee in the eye, then Ziva, he slowly separated the two fingers, commanding the two agents to move off to the sides. Gibbs snorted in contempt.

The agents listened to DiNozzo. McGee hopped back twice, leaning against the wall. Ziva took a step back, but stayed ready to catch Gibbs in case he should start to fall.

Gibbs looked at them with disbelief.

DiNozzo played his best card. "Rule 38," he sneered.

Gibbs continued their stare down for another minute, then the corner of his mouth twitched and he took one step back and placed his hands on the arms of the rocker, lowering himself back down to the seat with painful slowness. He gave the impression of an indulgent king sinking back down on his throne, trusting his regent to reign competently for a short while.

Tony moved to stand directly in front of him. Though the man was in rough shape, his eyes were clear and he was most definitely behaving like normal stubborn Gibbs.

They had got to him in time.

Tony's continued stare softened, but lost no intensity. He towered over the sitting man, but Gibbs had decided to play by his own rules and waited for Tony's next call.

Having declared his dominance in this particular arena, Tony let out a huge sigh and deflated his puffed up chest. He moved to the right of the rocking chair and turned to face the door, just as Gibbs did. Slowly, he sunk down to the floor, his good right arm leaning against Gibbs' side through the open slat of the chair.

Now beginning to feel the aches and pains acutely, Tony recalled what he had earlier tucked away and reached into his coat pocket to pull out a clean white handkerchief. He handed it up to Gibbs, who took it with a questioning glance.

"Gibbs, you've got a little schmutz…" Tony pointed at his own chin as a helpful reference, then changed the gesture to vaguely indicate his entire face.

He won a short but very real laugh. Tony leaned into the chair again, contented.

Together they waited for Ducky to come and inflict new tortures upon them.


	18. Chapter 18

Ducky sat in the Dodge and tried to use the sound of the gunshots to determine which side was winning each of the separate battles raging through the property.

Being left on the sidelines while the dangers occurred, that was the most hellish aspect of a medic's job. Waiting to be called, to clean up, to try to save what did not need saving only a moment ago.

It was the waiting, really, that was unbearable. Because it was never true that nothing happened. Gun battles do not result in nothing happening.

This was one of the motivating factors that had led to his move away from the field of an actively practicing doctor, especially one associated with the military.

He realized he was both brooding and fretting, which was helpful to precisely no one. He resolved to devote his attention to the action down on the old farm.

Suddenly everything was quiet. One more shot rang out from the house. Then only infrequent shots from the further-off barn area could be heard.

He was supposed to wait for Anthony's all-clear. But –

Ducky cautiously opened the car door and stepped out, medic bag in hand. He edged a few meters towards the house, feeling ridiculously like a schoolchild considering disobeying the headmaster's orders.

Blast, he was old enough and experienced enough to determine when and where he should approach a crime scene! He started towards the house in earnest.

Before he could take more than a dozen steps, a new-looking red Lexus sedan silently pulled over next to him. Dr. Helen Berkley lowered her window and smiled at him.

He had left his weapon in the car.

"Dr. Mallard, a pleasure to finally meet you," she said calmly, inclining her head in his direction.

"Dr. Berkley. I'm afraid I can't say the same." Ducky nodded in return.

She ignored his rejoinder and coldly uttered, "I am against the harming of medical practitioners on principle, Doctor."

"A fact I am delighted to learn."

"It would be best for you to stay closer to your office for the immediate future, Doctor, or to take a sabbatical. I cannot guarantee your safety in what's to come if you continue to immerse yourself in such situations." She gestured back towards the farm house.

"Ah." Ducky fussed with his bag for a moment, eager to be on his way to find Gibbs and his team, but unwilling to turn down what may be the only chance they would get to hold a conversation with their newest foe. "If I may be so bold, what precisely _is_ to come?"

"Retribution." The woman's voice did not get harder. Her face did not threaten, her eyes did not shrink to beads of coal. She behaved in a removed, cool way, as though she was giving a professional consultation. This routine, disassociated manner was frightening indeed given the content of their conversation.

"I believe it to be true that the person you wish retribution against is already dead, Doctor. The former director of NCIS was the driving force behind the investigation into your ex-husband."

"Perhaps the force, but not the tool."

"But without the force, what danger is the tool?"

"It is left available for use by anyone who may put it into action, regardless of intention."

"I can assure you that this particular instrument does not take instruction from any Tom, Dick or Harry that might wander by."

"Then he is not merely a tool, is he?"

Reluctant to agree, but unwilling to be dishonest, Ducky slowly replied, "No, young Anthony is not merely a tool. But he is not directly responsible for the tragedies that have occurred to your ex-husband and daughter."

Dr. Berkley issued a short, scornful laugh. "Do not for one moment mistake my own intention. I care nothing of the death of René. The man was a parasite, and should have been destroyed years ago."

"So you do this only for the sake of your daughter. But would she approve of your actions?"

Finally the woman's face tightened in anger.

"She's not here to disapprove, is she?"

"I take it you do not subscribe to the idea that a physician should do no harm."

"Ethics never saved anyone."

"I beg to differ."

"You will beg, on the ground, in chains, if you don't remove yourself from this situation. Consider yourself forewarned."

With that, Dr. Helen Berkley drove away from the farmhouse as Dr. Donald Mallard ran towards it.

* * *

Tony looked up as Ducky appeared in the kitchen doorway, suspiciously quickly after Ziva called him to declare the all-clear.

He decided to let that go. For now.

The ME went straight to Gibbs, who tried to brush him off. "Not shot, Duck. Look at the others first."

"Good Lord, Jethro. Perhaps you weren't shot. But what exactly was done to you?"

"I believe the section you are staring at was accomplished with a cheese grater, Ducky," Ziva offered helpfully.

Gibbs, DiNozzo and McGee all tried to hide smiles at this absurd normality, with varying success.

Ducky leaned down to take a look at Tony's shoulder, but Tony slapped him away and pointed back at Gibbs. The two agents engaged in a staring match while the doctor stood back sighing, then stepped over to McGee when he saw the large pool of blood forming around the man's foot.

"You can't just leave a gunshot wound as it is, without trying to stop the bleeding, Timothy. No matter the location, you are still losing copious amounts of blood."

DiNozzo and Gibbs both winced at the shriek their youngest member emitted as Ducky cut the shoe off, effectively ending their stare-down. But not before Tony saw Gibbs' throat spasm, as though he was trying to swallow but couldn't find the juice to do it.

Tony closed his eyes for a moment and blanked everything from his mind, including pain. It was a trick he taught himself years ago. It wouldn't last for long, but it was immensely useful for a few moments. With surprising grace and swiftness, he pushed up off the floor with his right hand and strode towards the kitchen sink, rummaging around in the nearby cabinets until he found a glass. Filling it with water, he turned back to Gibbs.

Saw that Gibbs looked cautious, torn. He licked his lips as though his body was desperate for the drink, but his eyes were steady on Tony's.

Well. This, he could fix.

"Director, would you please make a call and see what's holding up the ambulances?" Tony shot Vance a look that was, just for a moment, an honest reflection of his pain, exhaustion and worry. That was enough to make the man step out of the room as he placed his call.

Tony tried to call up a big ol' smirk as he brought the water to Gibbs, but he could feel his muscles disobeying his wishes. He probably ended up with some horrible Joker grimace.

Ziva smiled at him impishly and turned to McGee with great apparent concentration. Ducky was still absorbed in treating the bullet wound, and simultaneously giving McGee a lecture on the high likelihood of infection in foot wounds.

So there was no one else to see as Tony held the glass from the bottom with his right hand, Gibbs' hands shakingly placed around the sides as he made an attempt to guide it to his mouth. Tony went down to one knee so they would both have a better angle, and managed to keep his face neutral as he began to feel pain again – and as he remembered the bullet that had creased his calf earlier.

A small trickle of water ran down the side of Gibbs' mouth as he tried to control both his shaking hands and his intake from the glass at the same time. Tony let his eyes run over the damage up close. It wasn't pretty.

And it was his fault.

Something of his line of thinking must have shown on his face, as Gibbs shoved aside the glass and tried to find a clean spot on his arm to wipe his mouth with. Grunting as he could not find one, he used the handkerchief Tony had passed him earlier. With a smile at the back of his eyes, he reached around as though to headslap his friend, but he ended up leaving his hand on top of Tony's head, instead, as though he were too tired to complete the movement.

Tony set the glass on the floor without looking down. "Don't worry boss. You can hit me extra times tomorrow once you're rested up." He rolled his eyes around in a parody of innocence. "Though, you are getting older…maybe we better say in two or three days. I don't want to push you." Gibbs growled a bit and gave a quick yank on Tony's hair.

Tony made a show of jerking back. "Ow! Ducky! Gibbs pulled my hair!"

"Really, I don't see how either of you can have the energy to conduct any shenanigans just now. I suppose I should take it as a good sign…" The doctor's voice trailed off as he turned back to McGee, muttering about children.

Gibbs smiled, so Tony allowed himself to plant his ass back on the floor, momentarily satisfied.

A minute shift from Gibbs alerted him that Vance was behind him, done with his call and back in the room. "Should be here in five," he said shortly, staring or possibly glaring at the team scattered around the kitchen. Tony didn't turn around to check. He'd had more Vance in the past few days than anyone should have to put up with. Ever.

He stayed watching Gibbs, cataloguing every visible injury, until the paramedics arrived and toted them out of the kitchen, into the fresh air.

Looking around, it was obvious that Tremblay and his cohorts had roped the last of the hostiles outside – literally, Tony was amused to note, as at least one of their prisoners had what appeared to be a lasso holding him still. The four Mounties and two of the NCIS agents were sorting the bad guys into three piles: injured, dead, and ready to be hauled to jail. DiNozzo should have objected – based on procedure, the dead should have been left as they were to be processed as part of the crime scene. But considering the damn director was here and not protesting, and how big a fucking mess this whole thing turned into, there didn't seem to be much point.

Gibbs was on the phone with Abby now, assuring her that the team would all survive. From Tony's brief conversation with her before he passed the phone over, he had the feeling that he owed Palmer big time for keeping her from chasing after them.

Ducky climbed into the ambulance containing McGee, and they set off immediately. DiNozzo felt a major twinge concern at their abrupt departure; all the medical personnel on scene seemed worried about the kid's foot but he couldn't quite get a grasp on the details.

In fact, he was starting to get a little fuzzy. Must be from the damn paramedics working on his shoulder. They'd given him a shot of antibiotics that he distrusted. He glared at both of them for good effect, but they declined to dance away in fear. Actually, they were kinda pissed at him for refusing to lie back on the rolling gurney. He had walked outside, and now sat on the edge of the porch as they worked, Gibbs to his right, also having refused – well, most everything.

Ziva walked up to them, casting an inquiring glance at Tony. He jerked his chin towards Gibbs. He wanted her in with their boss, since it was unlikely the damn medics would let him ride with Gibbs.

She nodded, but Vance spoke up from several feet away. "I'll accompany Special Agent Gibbs to the hospital. Ziva, you can go with DiNozzo."

Tony's head snapped up. "No."

Gibbs interrupted what could have become a full-scale battle by awkwardly patting his agent's leg. "It's okay. I've got no problem with that arrangement."

Tony jerked to look at Gibbs, who was staring at Vance thoughtfully. Though he wanted to insist on the arrangements he had planned for, in truth Gibbs' eyes looked brighter and more alert with each passing moment whereas Tony was seriously flagging.

He was still considering whether or not to fight the edict when one of the EMTs settled the conversation for them by pressing hard on the bullet wound in Tony's shoulder.

DiNozzos don't pass out. But they can get very sleepy, very fast…

* * *

"So what's on your mind, Leon?" Gibbs questioned as his own bus sped towards the much-hated hospital. Seeing his team and getting out of that damned chair had done wonders for his state of mind, and the banana bag the medics set up was clearing some of the bleariness away.

Vance didn't reply. Gibbs tried goading. "Have a good trip with Tony, Leon?"

The director's mouth opened, but closed before he said anything.

Gibbs laughed outright. "Yeah, he takes some getting used to. But it's worth it."

"I do not understand how the two of you work together. You're hard to put up with Gibbs, but at least I understand you most of the time. That guy…" He shook his head.

"He's one of the few I've ever enjoyed working with," Gibbs offered.

One eyebrow raised, Vance returned, "He backed you down in there. He ever do that before?"

"Yep." Gibbs was still amused.

"Did you know the previous director offered him several assignments, including lead in Rota, and he turned them all down to stay with you and your team?"

"Nope." Not so amused anymore. That was a sobering realization, but not a surprising one.

"So how is it that someone strong enough to lead your team, someone able to back you down, gets offered a position like that and turns it down flat?"

"Offered him a deal a long time ago. Guess he hasn't got a better one since then."

"When did you offer him this deal?"

"Not long after we met, in Baltimore."

"His paperwork for his previous job in Baltimore is pretty thin. Transfer paperwork is pretty sketchy too, just his work history and your letter of recommendation."

Gibbs nodded, but did not feel the need to comment.

Vance waited in silence for nearly five minutes before losing patience and demanding, "So what the hell happened in Baltimore, Gibbs?"

Leroy Jethro Gibbs chose that moment to recline on the stretcher and close his eyes in comfort for the first time in days. His mouth kicked up at one corner as he allowed himself the indulgence of leisurely remembering his first tumultuous case with then Detective Anthony DiNozzo, Jr.

* * *

_A/N - Well folks, that's the official end of OV, sorry it took so long. If you're not signed up for an Author Alert, I invite you to check back in a few weeks. I hope to start posting my pre-series soon (and with most of it written so it won't take a freakin' month to update!). After the pre-series, I'll be going back to write a sequel to this story that should pick up almost immediately where this one leaves off. Who wants more Mounties?_


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